“Oh.” She stared at him, features blurred by the delicate swirl of steam rising from rehydrated food. “Don’t watch much.”
His lips went down at the corner. “Huh.” Wrong again.
After a few more seconds and another bite or two, she set her bowl in her lap. “What do you mean,huh?”
“Don’t watch much either.” He half shrugged. “Lost interest at some point.”
Her nod was slow and thoughtful. “People tend to watch stuff at night, you know? I’ve always worked at night. And here…” She pointed her spoon vaguely to the side. “I was in that kitchen sixty, seventy-five hours a week. Not much downtime.”
“Yeah.” He had a sudden flash of what it would be like to take Angel to the movies. They would crowd each other, since even as a teenager, he’d been too big for those seats, knocking knees into the seat in front, rubbing elbows with the person beside him. For three out-of-body seconds, he smelled the popcorn, felt his salty, buttery fingers grazing hers in the oversized bucket, heard her low, happy laugh at whatever was happening on the screen.
He, Ford Cooper, the man who ran from crowds and closeness, who couldn’t stand loud noises or excessive stimulation, could see himself there—with her.
Was he experiencing Winter-Over Syndrome? It could turn a person erratic, forgetful, slow. And he’d seen it firsthand. Shit, they’d even had psychiatrists spend winters at Pole to study its effects. Was this what Winter-Over Syndrome looked like for Coop? Wishing for things so outside his wheelhouse that they couldn’t possibly be real?
“What’s your favorite movie?”
He’d been so lost in his fantasies he jolted at her words.
“Will you think I’m crazy if I sayThe Thing?”
Her hiccupped laugh rang out like wind chimes in a hurricane, and shit, he wanted to bottle that sound. “Yes.” She sparkled, her smile wider than he’d seen it in days, her face relaxed. It flipped a switch in him, made him crave smiles and sighs the way an addict craves opiates.
“What about you?”
“Me?” She snorted, leaning forward as if sharing a secret. “My problem is that I’ve never been able to pick just one of anything. I love it all. Food, movies, music. I mean, my favorite black-and-white movie? That’sThe Maltese Falcon, hands down. Actually, no, because I’ve always been a sucker for Cary Grant. But then you add Christmas movies to the mix and…” She shrugged, as if giving in to her own excess. “See? Depends on the day, my mood. Where I am…”
Her words faded away as she stared off at nothing. Exhausted, like him. Battered by this place.
But not beaten.
They finished dinner, cleaned up, and went about getting ready for bed.
“Better take care of those feet,” he said.
A low sound of protest emerged from inside the sleeping bag, where Angel had already taken up residence. “Can it wait till the morning?”
“Frostbite’s not something to mess with. Let’s see them.” He didn’t intend to sound quite so bossy.
“I’ll do it.” Her words were slurred.
“You can barely move.” He held on to the kit, obstinate—and something else. Responsible, maybe. “I saw you limping out there. Your knee’s bugging you. Don’t deny it.”
She threw him a glare, but surprised him by complying.
He took hold of one slender foot and stripped it gently but quickly, since even in shelter, the risk of frostbite was real. It was light in his palm and mostly warm enough to alleviate his worry, though her toes were chilly. He touched each one. “Any numbness?”
She shook her head.
With great care, he peeled the bandages off, cleaned her skin, and reapplied fresh ones where needed, slipping the sock back on before starting the whole process with the other foot.
He couldn’t say exactly when it occurred to him that he held her naked foot in his hand, but once the realization popped into his head, it wouldn’t go away. Hung around like an itch he couldn’t get to.
A foot, for God’s sake. Ridiculous.
But the foot didn’t feel ridiculous right now. He gently squeezed it and expelled a harsh breath.
It felt…improper. Especially in comparison with the rest of her fully clothed body. And secret, somehow. He knew things about her now. He knew her second toe was longer than the big one, that her arches were high and elegant, her skin already roughened from two days of marching in the freezing desert air. He knew she’d put on a bright red nail polish at some point. It’d worn mostly off, but it made her toes look like candy. And he’d never craved sugar so badly.
