But Elias just beams. Happy. Oblivious. Or maybe not oblivious at all.
“I can sleep in a tent,” he says. “Or the truck bed. Or under the stars. It doesn’t matter. I’ve done dozens of trips like this.”
“You will not be sleeping under the stars,” I mutter. “No way.”
He grins like I’ve given him an early birthday present. “Okay,” he says, “then where willyoube sleeping?”
Air stalls in my lungs.
He leans in, eyes sparkling. “Near me?” he asks softly.
My blood turns molten. I have no idea what face I’m making, but his answering smile suggests it’s the right one.
“We’ll work that out,” I say roughly.
He nods. “Good,” he whispers.
We finish the agenda—or pretend to. Most of the time is spent with him asking questions and me pretending not to melt every time he calls the tripours.
Eventually, he gathers his notebook and steps toward the exit. “Same time tomorrow?” he asks. “For planning continuation?”
“Yes,” I say before I can think of a reason to refuse.
He smiles brightly and disappears into the trees. The silence he leaves behind feels too big for my chest.
I let out a shaky breath. This journey was supposed to be simple. Routine. Predictable. Now? I’m not sure what it is.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
ELIAS
The truck groansas it climbs the old service road, and I swear Boone is judging the engine with the same skeptical concern he uses when I try to carry too much equipment at once.
He sits in the passenger seat—mypassenger seat—large and solid and very much in human form. I’m trying not to stare at him, but it’s difficult when a six-foot-something mountain of muscle and stoic beauty is folded into the space beside me like some sort of resentful origami.
He keeps adjusting his seat belt like it’s personally attacking him. Which, to be fair, it probably is.
“This restraint device is unnecessary,” he grumbles for the third time.
“It’s a seat belt,” I say brightly. “It keeps you safe.”
He shoots me a look. “It keeps me irritated.”
I grin and tap the radio. “Want me to choose some music?”
His expression becomes distinctly alarmed. “Absolutely not.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ve heard what you listen to.”
I pretend to be offended. “You’ve heardoneplaylist.”
“I’ve heard enough,” he says, like he’s recalling a traumatic war memory. “That noise you played last night?—”
“It was indie folk!”
“It was lamenting.” He pauses. “At several points, I’m certain an instrument was crying.”
