I’m moving toward her before I realize I’m doing it, closing the distance between us like she’s a magnet and I’m helpless to resist.
“You’re supposed to be resting,” I say, stopping just short of touching her.
“I’ve been resting. I’m rested. I’m sick of resting.” She plants herself in front of me, attempting to cross her arms with the cast—then winces and uncrosses them, probably because the movement hurts her ribs. “What’s happening? I heard the bikes earlier.”
“Ridgeline’s here. Four men, including Ginger’s brother.”
“The famous Brick?”
“In the flesh.” I can’t help the slight smile. “Ginger’s already on his case. Something about trimming his beard and fixing a mustard stain.”
Josie’s mouth twitches. “Poor guy.”
“He’ll survive. He always does.” I study her face—still too pale, still showing the strain of the past few days. “How are you feeling?”
“Not great. My ribs hurt, my head aches, the holes are fucking weird, I’m not loving the shaved patches on my head, my cast is uncomfortable, the stitches itch, and I’m grumpy. So, you know. A Tuesday.”
“It’s Saturday.”
“Whatever.” She waves a hand dismissively. “What’s happening with Isabel?”
“Brick’s watching her. If she runs again, he’ll follow. See where she goes.”
“And then?”
“And then we’ll know more than we do now.”
She sways slightly, and I reach out without thinking—my hand finding her hip, steadying her against me.
She goes still. Her breath catches, just for a second, and her good hand comes up to grip my forearm.
We stand like that for a beat too long. Her eyes meet mine, and I see it—the flicker of interest she’s trying to hide. She’s not as immune to this as she pretends to be.
Thank fucking God.
She clears her throat, letting my arm go and stepping back. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go lie down before Maggie catches me out of bed and gives me another lecture about concussion protocols.”
“Need help getting back to your room?”
“I think I can manage ten feet of hallway on my own, thanks.”
“It includes stairs.”
She shrugs. “I’ll crawl if I have to.”
“Offer stands.”
“Noted. Declined. Good day, sir.”
She turns and shuffles back toward the guest room, one hand trailing along the wall for balance. I watch her go, an ache expanding in my chest.
That woman is going to be the death of me.
My phone buzzes again.
Brick
She’s on the move. Bathroom window.
