“Fine print,” I grunt.
“What?” she asks, arching a brow.
“Doesn’t matter if it’s insured. Fine print gets you every time.”
Her face doesn’t relax. If anything, it hardens. And those eyes—Phoenix’s eyes—bore into me. Appraising me. Observing everything. Cold and clinical in a way her brother never was.
I straighten, looking away as I strip the clinging wet denim from my cold skin. I steal a glance in her direction. Sloane’s eyes are wide, expressionless.
“War correspondent?”
Her gaze flicks to my face, trying not to stare. Failing miserably as I throw the drenched cloth aside. Just boxer briefs now. She worries her bottom lip, then nods once.
“You’ve seen worse,” I say. “I’ll find you something dry.”
The sound of her swallowing carries in the small cabin. “No,” she says. “I have my own clothes.”
“Alright.” I stand in front of the small dresser I built. When I drop the boxers, she gasps behind me.
I ignore it, changing into dry jogging pants. Then, I stand with my back to her. Waiting until the sound of zippers and the soft rustle of fabric tell me I can look again.
A pile of wet clothes greets me.
“No washer. No dryer. No shower.” I thumb over my shoulder to the backyard clothesline. “Hang them.”
At the front door, I slip into my boots, then trudge around the back. Red mud slides and cakes my boots. I hang my pants and boxers. Then, move them over slightly, making room.
She follows me wordlessly. Grabbing damp pins and securing her stuff. Pushing mine over farther. Taking her space.
Don’t like that.
Still pale-faced and blue-lipped. She stares at the washout that stole her Jeep like this is still fixable.
“Could’ve picked a better day,” I grunt.
“Picked the first chance I got,” she replies, chin raising defiantly.
“Then I hope it’s worth it.”
“The truth is always worth it.” Her teeth chatter, goosebumps standing up on her arms.
That stops me. “Thought by now you’d know…”
“Know what?”
“There is no truth. Only what we tell ourselves.”
She opens her mouth, then closes it. Her forehead creases as she scrutinizes me. “There is. That’s why I’m here.”
Of course, it is.
“Back inside.” I head for the cabin. At the door, I pause, glancing back. She’s still there where I left her.
“You don’t get to order me.”
“Suit yourself.” I shrug, closing the door and dropping the bar.
“Oh,” she exclaims after a long, motionless moment. She reaches it, not knocking. Just standing there, pressing against it. “Are you really going to leave me out here?”
