“She texted?”
“My phone is at the camper. Which means Joelle has either assumed I’m fine or begun making a spreadsheet of my possible final resting places.”
Flint pulled on his boots. “I’ll drive you down.”
“I can walk.”
He looked at me.
I held up a finger. “I said I can walk. I didn’t say I should walk. I call that growth.”
“That’s one word for it.”
“Be careful. I’m vulnerable and holding toast.”
He picked up my folded clothes from the chair and handed them to me. “The bathroom’s yours.”
I took them. His T-shirt brushed my thighs as I stepped past him, and his hand touched my lower back for one steady second.
The touch held me there without pushing.
I went into the bathroom before I did something wildly mature, like ask him whether he wanted me to stay forever while wearing yesterday’s shorts and no bra.
The mirror over his small sink wasn’t kind, but it was honest. My hair was a coppery riot. My lips looked swollen. My freckles had taken full advantage of the sun, and my cheeks still held a soft color I couldn’t blame on blush.
I looked like a woman who’d spent the night being wanted.
That thought should’ve made me panic.
Instead, I straightened my shoulders, pulled my clothes on, tied the bandana around my wrist, and finger-combed my hair into something that might pass for intentionally tousled if everyone on set agreed to be generous.
When I stepped out, Flint had packed the tray and put a small canvas bag by the door.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“I packed extra water, a clean towel, and your wedges from yesterday.”
I blinked. “You rescued Liza Minnelli?”
“She was in my truck bed.”
“She has endured so much.”
“The left buckle may not recover.”
I pressed a hand to my heart. “She gave everything for the brand.”
Flint opened the cabin door. “Wear better shoes today.”
“I brought better shoes today.”
“Actual better, or Sunny better?”
“Those are two different but equally valid categories.”
He held the door for me. “That answer worries me.”
“It should.”
