"Just a deer," I murmur. "They're all over these woods."
She swallows hard, then adjusts her grip on the Glock. "Keep moving."
My mind continues to betray me, cataloging details that are in no way pertinent.
The white tank top, translucent from rain and sweat, clings to her frame, revealing the outline of a standard prison-issue sports bra beneath. I’m sure it wouldn’t be flattering on most, but it does nothing to dim the allure of her breasts. My eyes trace the curves of her lower body that aren’t dulled by the prison scrubs.
Her eyes catch mine. "What are you looking at?" she demands, those pretty lips pressing into a thin line.
"Nothing," I lie, turning back to the path.
But I continue to steal glances. The storm darkens the day, but the moisture on her skin makes her glow. Her tank top rides up slightly as she adjusts myrifle on her shoulder, revealing a sliver of toned stomach. I force my eyes away, surprised by my own reaction. I've been dead inside for so long that this sudden rush of awareness is almost painful.
We arrive at my campsite. If the cabin I live in is basic, the small tent I pitched is the bare minimum. But her face doesn't hint at any disappointment.
"This is it," I say, watching her eyes dart around the site, clearly mapping. "We should probably get out of the rain. I've got some food in the tent if you're hungry."
I take a single step toward the tent, and she tenses immediately, gun still trained on my back. I raise my hands again, palms out. "Easy."
She motions with the barrel toward the tent opening. "You go first, but slowly."
I do as she instructs and duck inside. She follows, keeping the weapon raised, her body half crouched at the entrance. The confined space changes everything. Under normal circumstances, this proximity would be a tactical advantage. The closer you get to someone with a gun, the more options you have.
But nothing is normal about the way my chest tightens when she's this close. Her scent cuts through the musty tent—sweat and wet earth, but something distinctly feminine underneath. I can hear each breath she takes, see the pulse jumping in her throat.
Being this close doesn't make me feel more in control.
It makes me feel less.
I reach for my pack. My movements are deliberately slow. "I'm just getting food." I pull out a can of beans and a battered spoon and offer them to her. "Here."
Her hands shake slightly as she takes the can,fingers brushing mine for a fraction of a second. The contact sends an electric current up my arm that I haven't felt in years.
She sits awkwardly, cross-legged, trying to balance keeping the gun on me while opening the can. My rifle has slipped farther down her shoulder again. It’s a vulnerability I’ve had ample opportunity to exploit.
But again, I don't.
Instead, I watch her eat. She attacks the cold beans like they’ve done her wrong, barely pausing between bites. Despite the circumstance, I find myself charmed by this pretty girl who ain’t afraid to have an appetite.
"When's the last time you ate?" I ask.
She pauses, spoon halfway to her mouth. Probably considering how much information to give me. She begins eating again.
"Yesterday,” is all she says.
I nod slowly. "You must be exhausted." I reach for my canteen, holding it out to her. Another opening presents itself, splitting her attention between the water and the weapon. Again, I let it pass.
She takes the canteen and tilts her head back, gulping frantically. Water spills down her chin, tracking clean lines through the dirt on her delicate, beautiful neck.
When she lowers the canteen, she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. "Thanks," she mutters, and her voice has lost some of its edge.
The tent falls quiet except for the sound of her eating and the pelting of rain.
"I'm Walker," I say finally, breaking the silence. "Walker Cole."
She pauses mid-bite, studying my face. After a long moment, she swallows and lowers the spoon.
"Naomi Barrett." Her voice is softer now.
