“Chipper?” Brows up, the edges of his mouth pointing down, he gave her a disbelieving look. Insulted, almost. Okay, so maybe chipper wasn’t the right word, but she couldn’t exactly ask him why he didn’t look his usual level of angry. God forbid the man show a glimmer of joy.
“I feel like refried turds and you look…”Less pissed off.She took a sip of lukewarm tea, swallowed, and almost moaned at how good it felt going down. “Well rested.”
His cheekbones went a little red before he shut it down, back to the Ice Man: cold and remote and not at all amused. He hadn’t been any of those things when he’d held her in the night. He’d been her warm sanctuary, her corner of heaven. Funny how safe she’d felt with the world falling apart around them.
Don’t get used to it, dummy. In three weeks, we get to safety and then…
A blank. Nothing. No concept of what awaited them there. A dangerous emergency evacuation? A winter on the ice, in some foreign enclave? Would she have a room, a bed? Would they be forced to share? Would he refuse?
She looked away, annoyed with the path her thoughts had taken. As if what was happening here were anything but practical companionship. “What time is it?”
“About five.” He threw a look up, as if he could see the sky through fabric. “Storm’s died down.”
A strong wind buffeted the tent, showing them exactly who was boss.
“Well, some. Nobody’s flying in this, but we gotta move.” His head gave a fatalistic little tilt. “Temps seem to have risen, so I doubt we’ll freeze to death.”
“That’s heartening.” She’d put a hand down, ready to match her actions to his words, when he stopped her.
“Drink. Eat.” He handed her a morning ration. “And tell me where it hurts.”
It was an order and, since he was the man in charge of her survival, she sipped, bit, and chewed, enjoying the give of frozen butter as solid as cheddar against her teeth, and twice as satisfying. Next, she crunched into the precooked bacon they’d brought along.
She closed her eyes and took stock.
Food: good. Drink: satisfying. Body:…
“Knee hurts. But that’s pretty much par for the course. Back, too. Can’t say that’s a surprise.” She managed a smile. “Man, this is the world’s worst workout program. The Drag Your Own Butter.” She tensed and rolled her head to one side, then the other, letting out a long, relieved sigh.
“What else?”
“Dude. Give me a sec.” She slitted her eyes and grimaced his way. “Besides, I can handle it.” She flexed her right leg. It didn’t feel great, but it wasn’t anything she couldn’t push through. It was how she’d gotten through a million late shifts—ignoring burns and sprains and aches—and she’d do it again. “I’ll be fine.” She slurped down the rest of the tea and shifted, ready to emerge from the bag when he stopped her with a heavy hand on her thigh.
“You wanna survive this?” It was immediately obvious that the question wasn’t rhetorical.
She blinked, gaze meeting his, working hard to ignore the magnetism of those strange, crushed-crystal eyes, of freckles and sunspots, of a strong nose, burned red from the wind, and that square, no-nonsense, scruff-covered jaw. He was so handsome it hurt. Especially with that raw annoyance focused right at her.
“You know I do.”
“Then tell me what hurts.” His face, his voice, even the way his body bent toward her were deadly serious.
“Aside from my pride?” Her smile went unanswered, sending her right back to the galley her first week at Burke-Ruhe, when he’d walked in and scowled. And he hadn’t stopped since. What was it about this guy that made her feel like a bad twelve-year-old? He didn’t respond now, of course, so she closed her eyes again and concentrated. “My knee, but like I said…” She hated talking about it. Hated it almost as much as she hated thinking about the events leading to and from it. “That’s normal.”
Boom!The walls rippled with the force of another angry gale.
“Why?”
“Old injury.” She forced a smile, hoping he’d let it go. “My feet, however, feel like they’ve been steamrollered.”
“Can’t be that old,” he yelled close to her ear.
“What?” She watched him, frowning.
“Your injury.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re only what, in your twenties, so—”
