Juliette looked at it. The frog looked back, then released another obscene, gravelly croak.
For one clean second, Juliette Wilder lost the war with her own face.
Not a laugh. Worse.
A snort.
She shut it down immediately, but I’d heard it.
So had the frog.
“Noted,” she said, straightening with what dignity she had left. “The witness is hostile.”
I had to look away.
Mud suited her.
Back down, Mercer.
I left before lunch.
Didn’t shake it all afternoon.
By the time the sun dropped behind the trees and the guests gathered at the fire, whatever I’d held onto all day was wearing thin.
I found her. Firelight catching in that dark, copper-streaked hair. She’d traded the mud for a dress that skimmed instead of concealed.
The dress was a suggestion, not a covering. My pulse didn't just spike.
It damn near redlined.
Whatever discipline I'd built all day came apart in one breath.
She held a glass of wine like it was a shield. People talked around her. She didn’t join in. “You look like you’re counting the minutes,” I said.
She glanced up. “Running out of small talk.”
“Same.”
I jerked a thumb toward the darker edge of the clearing. “Come with me.”
She followed. We moved past the last chair, the firelight fading into the silver-black of the bush. The sound of the group dropped away, replaced by the soft scrape of seed heads.
No one watching.
“You left early,” she said.
“Morning sweep.” I shrugged. “Also I wasn’t sure what the morning protocol was.”
“What protocol?”
“For waking up next to you.”
I stopped walking.Too late to pull that back.The admission hung in the air, heavier than the morning humidity.
“And now?” she asked.
I turned to face her. “Now I’m wondering if one night was a risk I shouldn’t have taken.”
