“Number four.” He points. “Honestly, Rune, if you could just slow down so we could talk about this?—”
Oh, sure. Why don’t I stroll to my doom, giving everyone who has it out for us as much time as possible to do us in? But I don’t have the breath for a sarcastic retort, so I just come to a skidding halt in front of Donovan’s cabin and double over, hands on my knees, while I wait for him to open the door.
He fumbles in the front pocket of his battered jeans for his key, digging around so long that, for an awful heartbeat, I’m afraid it’s gone, lost at the bottom of the lake or in the escape room’s snowbank. But no—even in the face of mortal injury and death-defying odds, Sex Spreadsheet Guy has hung on to his powers of organization. He slides the key into the lock, turns the knob, and then we step inside.
Chapter
Forty-Eight
Donovan’s cabinlooks much like mine did, in the cursory inspection I gave it when I dropped off my baggage. The walls are exposed logs, and the living area is one large, open space. To my left is a small galley kitchen, straight ahead is a bathroom, and to the right is a writing desk, a stone fireplace that takes up an entire wall, and a queen-sized bed covered in a homey patchwork quilt. Donovan’s navy duffel bag sits patiently beside it, a dog awaiting the return of its master.
He locks the door behind us. Silence falls, broken only by our harsh breathing, the drip of water from our clothes onto the hardwood floor, and the renewed chattering of my teeth.
There are two towels stacked on the desk. Donovan hands one to me, then kneels and pulls some folded clothes from his duffel. “Here,” he says, thrusting them in my direction. “Sweats. They’re much too big, but at least you’ll be warm.”
At this point, I wouldn’t care if he’d handed me a muumuu. Muttering my thanks, I take the clothes and flee for the bathroom. My last sight is of Donovan pulling off his shirt, which falls to the ground with asplat.Even in these direcircumstances, I can’t help but notice how toned he is, and the V of muscle that leads to his?—
No, Rune. Down, girl. Look away.
I shut the bathroom door behind me with a mingled sense of relief and regret. Then I lean against it, shivering, trying not to think about how the man I shouldn’t sleep with under any circumstances is getting naked on the other side. I’ve never needed stress relief so badly in my life, but this is not the time—and he is not the man. “Not going to happen,” I say aloud. “Focus.”
“Did you say something?” Donovan calls, too close to the door for comfort. “If the clothes don’t work, I could give you a different?—”
“The clothes are fine! Don’t come in here!” I set the sweats and the towel down on the corner of the sink. With fumbling, half-frozen fingers, I tug my destroyed shirt loose, then start working on the drawstring of my pants. The water has done a number on it, solidifying the knot into a mass that I can’t pick apart, no matter how hard I try. I dig at it, trying to pry it loose, and almost peel my nail right off. “Ow!”
“Are you okay in there?” Donovan says, sounding even closer this time.
“Great. I—I just—” In desperation, I search the bathroom for anything that might help—tweezers, maybe, or even scissors. At this point, I’d settle for cutting the damn drawstring in half. I pull open the two small drawers that flank the bathroom sink, then the cabinet beneath it, but no luck.
As I straighten, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror: blue lace bra that’s seen better days; porcelain-pale skin; hair tangled with seaweed; irises so huge, I look like one of Margaret Keane’s big-eyed children. I’d give my kingdom for a shower, but we don’t have the time. Instead, I settle for picking greenery out ofmy hair, gasping in pain when something thorny stabs me in my injured finger.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Donovan sounds worried now. “I heard you slamming things, and then— Just answer me, will you?” When I don’t reply, he knocks. “Rune?”
I scoop up the hoodie Donovan gave me. It’s soft, forest-green, and smells like him—that enticing hint of cedar and vanilla. More than anything, I want to slip it over my head and disappear inside it, all cozy and warm. But no…the moment it touches my saturated pants, it’ll get soaked. Unless I want to put my nasty, shredded shirt back on, I only have one option.
“Rune!” Panic laces his voice. “Will you please?—”
I really, really am not looking forward to what I have to do next. But I also don’t have the fortitude to track down the villain who killed my parents and figure out what the hell Ethan is up to while wearing soaking-wet, ice-cold pants. Sighing, I jerk the door open.
Donovan is standing on the other side, dressed in a navy t-shirt that brings out his eyes and a fresh pair of jeans. He must’ve had his shoulder against the door, because when it creaks inward, he nearly topples onto me. He steadies himself, one hand gripping the top of the frame, and takes me in: blue lace bra, tangled hair, and all. His jaw drops.
“I, um, can’t get my pants off,” I mutter, feeling a blush color my cheeks. “The knot in the drawstring is, um…the water made it impossible to…”
My voice trails off. Donovan is staring at me, his gaze tracking slowly downward—from my mouth to my throat to the lace of my bra, where it lingers. I swear I can feel the heat of it on my skin. It tracks lower still, down my belly to the aforementioned knot, and doesn’t budge.
“There are no scissors in the bathroom,” I say, fidgeting under the weight of that piercing gaze. The woman I examinedin the mirror looked about as alluring as if she’d been dumpster diving. But clearly, Donovan isn’t seeing the same thing I did. “That’s what I was looking for,” I rattle on, unsettled. “I thought you might have some out here, in the, um, kitchen.”
At this, his eyes flick upward, meeting mine. Humor lurks in their depths. “Let me get this straight. You’re asking me to cut off your pants?”
Sweet Jesus. “I can cut them off myself!”
“Sounds hazardous,” he drawls.
I want to tell him that what’s hazardous is me standing in front of him, half-naked, ten feet from a bed. What’s hazardous is the storm that I can feel brewing between us, the way the space between us is too small and not big enough, all at the same time. But the words freeze in my throat when Donovan lifts the hand that’s not gripping the doorframe, so slowly that I have all the time in the world to back away. Which I should absolutely do. But I don’t move.
With a single finger, he traces the same line his gaze took a minute ago: over my cheekbone and my throat, between my breasts, down my stomach. His hand closes on my hip, its warmth a welcome contrast to my lake-chilled skin. “Chaos,” he says hoarsely, and in those two single syllables I hear both an invitation and a warning.
I don’t know if he’s labeling the mess we’ve found ourselves in, or whether he intends it as the nickname he gave me, the one I haven’t heard him use since that very first night. One thing I do know, though: I’m a millisecond from telling him he can undo the knot in the drawstring, all right…with his teeth. But as I open my mouth, the ground beneath us shifts, the foundation of the cottage creaking. Behind me, the sink turns on, water splashing into the basin.
