Arching a brow, I dare her to lie again.
Her shoulders slump, and the fight from only a moment ago drains from her. “Not long.”
“How long is not long?”
“A few days?—”
Clearing my throat, I cross my arms across my chest.
Her lashes drop, hiding her expressive eyes from me. “Two months.”
“You’ve been living out here in the middle of the woods in a tent for two fucking months?” I hiss, both appalled and reluctantly impressed.
“I guess,” she whispers.
In this moment she looks and sounds so young and innocent and so fucking broken that I take a step closer and hook myfinger under her chin, lifting her face up so I can see her. “It’s okay, amore mio, it’s all going to be okay.”
“I’m fine,” she says, snapping her face out of my touch.
“No, you’re not. Do you know the rules about dispersed camping in this area?”
She sucks in an audible breath, then shakes her head.
“Wild camping is allowed here, but only for a maximum of fourteen days. And campfires are strictly prohibited, because these woods are at high risk for wildfires. A wayward flame could destroy acres of ancient woodlands. You’re breaking at least a handful of laws by being out here. Never mind how fucking dangerous it is. There are wild animals. We have bears and mountain lions, wolves and bobcats—you’re a sitting dinner treat in that tiny fucking tent.”
“I’ve only lit a fire a handful of times, and I was careful. And I’m fine, I can take care of myself. But now that I know the rules, I’ll pack up and move on. It was time anyway,” she says quietly, her lashes dropping and hiding her eyes from me again.
“No,” I bark, my entire being protesting the idea of her leaving.
Startled, her head snaps up, and I exhale when her eyes meet mine again.
“Where would you go?” I question, a crazy idea popping into my mind.
Her shrug makes me itch to grab her and promise her that everything is going to be okay.
“I have a spare room,” I blurt.
“What?” she questions slowly.
“I have a spare room. Two, actually. And I’m barely at home. You could have the place to yourself.”
“I don’t have a job.”
“I could help you find one.”
“Why?” she questions, clearly suspicious of my motives.
“Because you need the help.” It’s a truth, but it’s notthetruth.
“What would you get out of it?”
“I’d know that you were safe,” I tell her honestly.
“You don’t know me.”
“But I want to,” I admit. I know in an instant that I’ve said the wrong thing.
Her body language shuts down, and she stiffens. “No, thank you,” she says coldly, turning and starting to pull up the pegs holding the ropes on her tent into the ground.
