“We’ll let Garrison and Sawyer know what happened,” Weston says.
“Great. I’ll get with you guys tomorrow, and we’ll make a plan.”
“Sounds good.” Weston shakes his hand, then turns away from me. Ryker does the same.
“I’m just glad I parked my truck far enough away it didn’t end up with a few new holes,” Zane comments as he reaches for my arm.
I rip it away, though, not wanting anyone to see me as weaker than they already do.
Poor Tessa Lane. Always needing someone to watch out for her. Always needing Zane Knox to come to the rescue.
“Tessa, let me help.”
“You already are.” I continue limping forward, prepared to deal with the pain as I walk the half-mile to Zane’s truck. He’s already done so much for me, and needing even more help just isn’t something I’m prepared to admit.
Tears burn in my eyes, and I clench my hands into fists.
Before I make it even out of the drive, Zane scoops me into his arms, his large strides eating up the distance between us and the truck.
I should complain, but to be honest? The feel of his arms around me is too good for me to deny. Especially when I came so close to losing him.
Tomorrow, I can work on the walls to keep him out.
But tonight? Tonight, I’m just happy he’s alive.
He deposits me onto the passenger seat of his old Chevy truck, then comes around to the driver’s side and climbs in without a word. As he turns on the engine and pulls away, I shift my gaze out the window at the trailer as yellow caution tape is stretched around the place where I grew up.
You know, it’s funny.
I always figured this place would be a crime scene.
I just didn’t think I’d be alive to see it.
“Tea?” Zane questions as he steps up into the galley of his boat. His hair is still wet from his shower, and the scent of eucalyptus dances in the air from his body wash. I try to ignore the thrill I feel at the fact that we smell the same since he insisted I shower first.
His cheek has a fresh bandage on it, and the blood and mud are cleansed from his skin. But even though it’s covered, I can still see the wound there. A jagged cut that will likely turn into a scar.
My stomach churns. “Sure. Thanks.”
He doesn’t respond, just fills an electric kettle with water and pulls down two mugs. I watch as he scoops loose tea into two tea bags and sets them into the cups. Instead of coming to the table, he remains where he is, staring at the kettle, his back to me.
What’s on your mind? Are you regretting bringing me back into your life?
What does a man like Zane think about when the world around him is quiet?
“How is your cheek?” I ask, the quiet making me uncomfortable.
“It’s fine.”
“You got shot in the face. I hardly think that’s fine.”
“I got grazed. It’s not even the worst injury I’ve had this year.”
“You said that already.”
He turns toward me and leans back against the counter. “It’s the truth.”
My heart rate increases as I look at him. This time, for an entirely different reason than earlier. How does he still have this hold over me after all these years? “Officer Leopold asked about whether or not someone was after you because of your job. Why is that? What exactly do you do?”
