He looks back at me, and the slightest hint of amusement returns. “You’re going to be a problem.”
“And you’re going to be a migraine,” I shoot back. “Look at us. Destined.”
His jaw ticks. That’s a point for me. “Bag,” he says, holding out his hand.
“I can hold my own bag.”
“I’m taking it.”
“No.”
He gives me a look that could make a grown man confess to tax fraud.
“I’m not handing my stuff to a stranger on an airstrip,” I say. “I’ve seen too many documentaries.”
“Rowan,” he warns.
“I can carry it. I have arms.”
He steps in, reaches for the strap, and I tighten my grip. Our fingers brush. A stupid spark zips up my arm like my body has decided this is a meet-cute and not a hostage situation. I glare at my own nerve endings.
“Let go,” he says.
“Make me.”
He doesn’t yank. He doesn’t wrestle. He simply leans closer, voice low enough that it feels like he’s talking directly into my bloodstream. “Fine,” he says. “Walk with it. But if you get snatched because you needed to win a tote-bag standoff, I’m going to be annoyed.”
“Oh no,” I whisper. “Anything but your annoyance.”
His eyes lock on mine, and for a beat, the wind dies and the noise fades and it’s just us standing too close with too much tension over a bag strap. Then he steps back like he’s the one with the self-control, and I’m the one who’s about to do something reckless.
He gestures toward a black SUV waiting with the engine running. “Move.”
“Bossy,” I say, but I start walking.
He falls into step beside me, close enough that I can smell him. Clean. Soap. A hint of something like oak or aftershave or maybe just the illusion of safety.
I hate that it works.
“You always talk this much?” he asks.
“It’s a coping mechanism,” I say. “Some people chew gum. I run my mouth.”
He glances at me. “Try chewing gum.”
“Try smiling.”
He doesn’t answer. He just opens the SUV door and waits.
I pause. “I’m not getting in the car until I know where we’re going.”
“We’re going to Salt & Steel headquarters really quickly.” He gestures for me to get into the car. “And then, you’re going to a safe house.”
“That’s vague. Safe house where? In South Carolina? In the middle of nowhere? In someone’s basement with a collection of porcelain dolls?”
His expression doesn’t change, but his gaze sharpens. “You don’t get to pick.”
I lean closer, keeping my voice light, like I’m not suddenly aware of how exposed we are out here. “I do get to pick,” I say. “I picknot dying. I pick knowing the plan. I pick not being treated like luggage.”
