He threw her a confused look. “What?”
“With all the trekking, maybe I’ll finally tone some of this.” He averted his eyes as she patted her hip, then turned again and squatted, unconsciously giving him the opportunity to check out her rear end. Which was perfect, as far as he was concerned, but then, her curves were none of his business.
He searched the sky. No approaching aircraft. Good.
“Almost done.”
“Wow. Okay. Better get my knives.”
“Knives?” He blinked. “What do you need those for?”
“First, I’ll need something to cut all this butter into chunks. But also, you know that burning-building question? Like, what would I run back inside for?”
He nodded.
“My knives. That’s what I would grab.”
“Why?”
She cocked her head at him, squinting like he was of a different species. “They’re the tools of my trade.” Something in her face changed, as if she’d suddenly figured him out. “Like you and your drills.”
Understanding hit him like a fist to the solar plexus. He stood up. “I’ll get them for you.”
She opened her mouth as if to argue and then closed it with a nod. “Thanks.”
“Wind’s picking up.”
“This is good for us, right?” She eyed him.
“Sure.” He turned to go.
“Wait.” She put a hand on his arm. “Why don’t you take a break?”
Instead of looking her way, he stared at the bright yellow of her glove against his red coat and shook his head. “Too much to do.”
“Okay. Be honest with me. Are we screwed?” When he didn’t answer, didn’t move at all, she went on. “If it’s that bad, how about you take a few minutes, huh? Rest. Tell me how screwed we are.”
He shot her a surprised look. Of everyone in this place, Angel Smith would have been the last one he’d have looked to in a crisis. He’d have asked for a partner with a more scientific mind or maybe someone athletic and strong. Not her, with her effusiveness, her musical laugh, and spice cloud aura.
Wordlessly, he met her molten-magma warm eyes.
She looked tired and anxious and, for the first time since he’d glimpsed her in the galley all those months ago, pale.
“Aren’t we better off staying here and fighting?”
“No power. No fuel. No weapons. Winter’s on its way. We stay here, we die eventually. Whether or not they show up.” It wasn’t a question of if but when. Today, tomorrow, or in a few weeks, when the sun set for the season and temperatures plummeted. Nothing could survive without power out here in the dark of austral winter.
Breath held, he steeled himself for histrionics or maybe, on the opposite end of the spectrum, flippancy.
What he got was something he’d neither expected nor wanted: a hug.
Ford Cooper didn’t do hugs—not as a kid or as a sniper in the U.S. Army, nor as a research scientist in the most unwelcoming field on earth.
But after a few breathless seconds in the soft circle of this woman’s arms, even he had to admit that there was something to be said for comfort in the face of impending doom.
Certain death, he recalled after years without its specter hanging over him, had a way of blowing old hang-ups right out of the water.
She pulled away. “So, where are we headed?”
