“I’m fine,” I insist, pulling the quilt up higher.
“There’s a burger left,” he says. “From The Salt Lick. It’s wrapped in foil on the mantle. If you want it.”
I hesitate. I’m stubborn. I don’t want to take charity from him. I don’t want to admit that I need anything from him.
But the mention of the burger sends a fresh wave of hunger through me that makes my mouth water. Beef? Cheese? It all sounds heavenly. Better than heavenly. It sounds like survival.
I look at the fireplace. The embers are fading. The warmth is leaching out of the air.
“Maybe,” I whisper.
Boone moves. He stands up.
I watch him, and for some reason, my breath catches. He looks taller than usual. Maybe it’s because I’m lying on the floor on a mattress. Maybe it’s the shadows stretching up the walls. He towers over the space, a dark silhouette against the glow of the fire. He is wearing a tight black T-shirt and his jeans. His shoulders are broad, his waist narrow.
He walks to the mantle and retrieves the foil packet. He moves with that economy of motion he has, never wasting energy. He comes back to the mattress and crouches down.
He holds out the foil. It’s cold, but that doesn’t matter.
I take it. “Thanks.”
He doesn’t leave. He sits on the floor, cross-legged, near the foot of the bed. Wellsy abandons me immediately, trotting over to Boone and resting his head on his knee. Boone scratches the dog’s ears automatically, his eyes on the fire.
I unwrap the burger. It’s a little smashed, the bun soggy from the grease, but it smells amazing.
I break off a piece of the patty and toss it to Wellsy. He snaps it up. Then I look over the edge of the mattress. Blue is curled up near Knox, but he lifts his head at the smell of food. I tear off a piece of meat and toss it to him, too.
“You don’t have to feed them,” Boone says. “They already ate.”
“That was hours ago. I’m sure they must be hungry too,” I say, taking a bite of the burger. The flavor explodes on my tongue—salt, fat, cheese. It’s the best thing I have ever tasted. The beef is salty, the cheese tasty, and the bun has absorbed just enough of the grease to be soft without falling apart. I take another bite, closing my eyes as the flavors coat my tongue.
The frantic energy that has been vibrating under my skin all day begins to settle, replaced by a heavy, satisfied lethargy.
I eat quickly, not caring about manners. Wellsy watches me with intense focus, his head resting on Boone’s knee. When Ihave only a bite left, I break off another tiny piece of the bun and hand it to Blue. He takes it gently, then looks at Boone as if asking for permission. Boone just shakes his head, a small, amused huff escaping him.
“You’ve got him trained,” I say, wiping my mouth with a paper napkin Boone must have brought with the food.
“He’s a smart dog,” Boone says. He stands up, his knees cracking slightly in the silence. He walks to the hearth and picks up the iron poker. He stoops, poking at the embers, rearranging the logs.
The fire flares, a new wave of heat rolling over the room. I watch him. The light catches the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his shoulders under the tight T-shirt.
He looks older than the boy who pulled me from the mud eight years ago. The lines around his eyes are deeper, etched by sun and worry. But he’s still Boone. Still the one person who could always make me feel safe, even when I wanted to hate him.
He tosses a log onto the fire and dusts off his hands. He turns back to me, leaning against the mantle.
“Better?” he asks.
I look down at the foil wrapper in my hand, crushing it into a ball. “Yes. Actually. I am.”
The admission surprises me. It should be a lie. I should still be angry about the leases, about the betrayal, about the way he manhandled me earlier. But the fire is warm. The food is sitting heavy and good in my stomach. And for the first time since I arrived in Muddy Creek, the noise in my head has stopped.
“Good,” he says.
He pushes off the mantle and walks over to the mattress. He doesn’t sit this time. He crouches down beside me, bringing himself to my eye level. The scent of him—rosemary and citrus and cool mint—washes over me, stronger now that he’s close.
I tense, expecting a lecture. Expecting him to bring up the papers again.
Instead, he reaches out. His hand moves toward my face, and I flinch, pulling back slightly.
