He’s pushed Bill’s junk mail aside and has the map I bought from the gas station spread out flat, tracing a line with his index finger.
It looks so incredibly normal. And if I try hard enough, I can almost pretend this is our house, and we are just planning a weekend road trip.
“Hey, so… You figured out the coffee maker?” I say softly, leaning against the doorframe.
Noah looks up, his pale blue eyes instantly finding mine in the dim light. “Yeah. It’s terrible, but it has caffeine. Poured you a mug.” He nods to the counter.
I grab the cracked ceramic mug, taking a sip of the bitter, black liquid, and walk over to stand behind him. I wrap my arms loosely around his neck, resting my chin on his bare shoulder.He immediately leans back into my touch, his good hand coming up to cover mine where it rests against his chest.
“What’re you looking at?” I ask, looking down at the map.
“I don’t know really,” he taps a spot in the Texas Panhandle. “If we can eventually get our hands on a car that won’t flag as stolen, we just need to get back to I-40. We can take it straight through New Mexico. Or maybe takethisroute.” His finger traces from Hereford, taking a southern road.
“Then there’s Maricopa,” he murmurs, almost to himself, as his finger stops on the town. “If I can just get to Maricopa, the coyote can take it from there.”
I stiffen. The warm, domestic bubble instantly pops, leaving me freezing in its wake.
If I can get to Maricopa.
“You meanwe,” I correct him, my voice dropping, my fingers tightening against his collarbone. “Ifwecan get to Maricopa.”
Noah goes still, his arm locking as his finger remains on the map. He doesn’t correct himself.
He doesn’t say yes.
“Noah,” I step back, dropping my arms from his neck. “What do you mean, ifyoucan get to Maricopa?”
He lets out a heavy breath, turning in the chair to face me. “Rue... I’m just talking. It’s been a long few days. But you donothave to do this either. You have a whole life?—”
“My whole life is right here!” I explode, the desperation clawing its way up my throat. “I’m not leaving you. I don’t care what this coyote in Arizona says, I’m going with you.” My voice cracks, and I fight the urge not to reach for him, prepping for his cold, detached self.
But he doesn’t unleash that on me.
Instead, he steps forward, his good hand wrapping firmly around the back of my neck. He pulls me flush against his bare chest and crashes his lips down onto mine.
It’s a harsh, desperate kiss. He swallows my gasp, his tongue sliding against mine, tasting like dark coffee and possessive heat. He backs me up until my hips hit the edge of the kitchen counter, entirely distracting me from the argument he refuses to finish.
And ugh, it works.
My anger melts into a pool of blinding submission. I reach up, tangling my hands in his dark hair, kissing him back with every ounce of fear and toxic devotion I have for him.
When he finally pulls away, we are both breathless. He rests his forehead against mine, his eyes closed.
“Don’t fight with me today, Rue,” he rasps, his voice a raw, gravelly scrape in the quiet room. “Please. Just... let’s enjoy this for a few days. I’ll put the map up.”
A tear slips hot down my cheek, and I quickly wipe it away. “Okay,” I breathe out, forcing a shaky smile. “Okay. No fighting.”
“Good girl,” he says, kissing my forehead, and then starts folding up the map.
But even then, I still need a distraction—and one that’s not Noah’s body. I need to keep my hands physically busy, so my brain stops reminding me that this farmhouse is a temporary illusion and that I am on borrowed time.
I pull away from him, my eyes frantically scanning the kitchen. The counters are sticky with old coffee rings. There is a layer of dust on the baseboards, and the sink smells like sour mildew.
It’s despicable in here.
“What are you doing?” Noah asks, watching in utter confusion as I open a cabinet under the sink and pull out a half-empty bottle of all-purpose cleaner and a rag.
“I’m cleaning,” I state matter-of-factly, spraying a generous amount of the harsh, lemon-scented liquid onto the counter.
