Before, when I was still working with Elliot and Hannah, I felt this way a lot. Like everyone around me was lying, putting on a bright, fake face just to pacify me. There were always doors shutting quickly, or conversations dying when I walked into the room.
Only later did I learn why.
And now, today, it was Lola — astranger,practically — quickly hiding her phone in her pocket. Acting like she wasn’t just recording the area right off my back porch.
To her credit, she only got a shot of the mountains, of the trees. She didn’t turn around and include the cabin in that shot, but she might have been about to. I’d interrupted her before she had the chance.
Or maybe she’s just an influencer here to get footage, like she said. And she recognized the beauty of the view from the porch.
Doesn’t matter. I told her not to film, didn’t I?
Maybe not, but it should have been clear from the fact that I took her drone, and watched through the footage to make sure nothing about me was in it.
My mind is still whirring when I open the door and find Lola herself standing in the bathroom, the door open, in nothing but a little white towel,
“Oh, hey,” she says, turning and waving to me. I stand, stunned and staring at her, my gaze dragging first up and then down her body. Taking in the way she stands, the casual posture, one foot stacked atop the other. How the towel cuts off dramatically at her thigh, showing off her long, tanned legs.
Maybe she goes to a tanning bed. I should tell her about the dangers of skin cancer.
“Rowan?” she asks, because I’ve been standing here like a creep, staring at her. It’s at this moment that the correct side of my brain takes the reins again, and I remember I’m furious with her, and suspicious of her. This could all be an attempt to seduce me.
“You should keep the door shut,” I say tersely before stalking off and away, into the kitchen. I need something to do with my hands, and it’s nearly lunch time now — we’ve missed breakfast — so I pull out some ingredients and start assembling smoked fish sandwiches, using a couple of bagels from the freezer.
Outside, the rain continues to pour, mocking me. Drumming against the roof, muffled through the natural soil barrier. Bouncing off the patio and pinging musically against the windows.
And it’s showing no sign of letting up any time soon.
Theoretically, Icouldforce her to leave. There’s no law saying I have to let her stay at my place. She’s not a soldier. But as annoyed as I am with her, it’s not like I’m going to send an injured woman out into the rain, force her to hike back to her car alone and limping.
“Rowan.”
Lola appears in the doorway to the kitchen, and I feel myself tense up. Even from the corner of my eye, I can see that she’s changed into a leisurewear set, some fluffy sweatshirt that hangs off her and makes her look impossibly soft. Her cheeks are pink, like she’s just finished a workout, and her eyes are bright and intense, so I can feel their weight on me.
I finish what I’m doing, then turn to look at her, anger simmering inside me.
But when I look at her, she’s pushing her phone across the counter.
“I’m sorry,” she says, and when she looks up at me, her eyes are shining with a genuine apology. “I thought since you let me keepthe drone footage, you wouldn’t mind. I should have checked to see if it was okay with you first.”
I blink at her, then at her phone, shocked at this sudden and unprompted moment of honesty from her.
“You saw me recording out there. And it pissed you off, but you didn’t say anything. Why?”
I raise a hand, running it over my jaw, staring down at her phone, where she’s left the screen open on the gallery, showing the video she took from the back porch. It’s stunning, and I can see why she took it.
There are several reasons. Because I like her. Because I understand the position she’s in, as a woman, trapped here and injured. She probably still hasn’t fully cleared me from thepotential murdererlist in her mind. If this were a horror movie, we’d still be in the beginning stages, where she’d be getting to know me, and creepy details would be explained away.
“You can delete them,” she says, clearing her throat and nudging the phone in my direction. I get the sense that she’s not used to comfortable silence. Or that, for her, that might be an oxymoron.
Slowly, I pick up her phone, swiping my finger along the screen to look through the various photos and videos. None of them show my place, not even a sliver of the railing in the corner of the shot.
I set it back down on the counter, working my jaw and thinking.
“You don’t have to delete them,” I say finally. Lifting my gaze to hers, I say, “I have a good reason for keeping my life private, my identity hidden. I’m trusting that you’re not going to tell anyonewhere I’m at. That you’re not going to advertise this spot in anything you post.”
I wave my hand in the general direction of her phone, and she holds it to her chest, nodding seriously, her damp hair falling loosely over her forehead. My hand twitches with the urge to reach up and tuck it behind her ear, so I turn and focus on finishing our lunch instead.
“Okay,” she says quietly, and I can hear the smile in her voice. “Your secret is safe with me.”
