Page 17 of Finding Forever

“So do I.” The distant rumble of heavy vehicles. “You need to pack an overnight bag.”

“Me? Why?”

“They’ll want to haul me to the hospital. I don’t want you left here alone.”

She gives me a look, and I bite back a grin. I like her challenging me. Doesn’t mean I’ll back down, but I enjoy it all the same.

“You’re kidding me, right? You know I’m here on my own most of the time,” she says. “Especially since I closed for a remodel.”

“That was before I knew you. Things are different now.”

Her mouth presses into a thin line.

“You’re too isolated out here,” I insist. “The inn’s a crime scene, the door isn’t secure, and more snow’s coming. You’ll also need to give a statement.”

What I don’t say is that I want her with me. I don’t want to be separated. There’s an irrational fear clawing at me: if I don’t keep her close, she’ll slip through my fingers.

That whatever this is between us will vanish once reality intrudes. We need to talk. I need to know this isn’t all in my head. That she wants something with me too.

Her response to that scorcher of a kiss gives me hope.

Any talk has to wait until I’m not dealing with a GSW. There’s also the fugitive in the next room and local LEOs about to be swarming the place.

She whips eggs in a bowl, then pours them into a pan on the stove. In minutes, she sets a plate in front of me. Scrambled eggs, hashbrowns, bacon. I can’t remember the last time I had a real home-cooked breakfast. She starts arranging muffins in a basket.

“You need to eat too,” I say. “Sit with me?”

She smiles like I’ve asked her on a date instead of inviting her to her own kitchen table. “I will. I just need everything ready first.”

The muffins go on the counter next to an urn of coffee and stacked paper cups. Tea bags sit beside an electric kettle. Sliced oranges scent the air. It hits me that she’s offering more than food, she’s offering comfort.

“You’re a natural at this,” I say, nodding toward the spread.

She shrugs. “It’s what I do for guests, so it’s easy.”

The marshals aren’t guests, but I’m beginning to understand that caring for others is who Kit is. A question nags at me: who takes care of her?

I’ve already decided that’s me. If she’ll let me.

The rumbling of the plows is close now.

“Sit down and eat,” I tell her. “Or you won’t get a chance.”

She brings a plate and a mug of tea to the table. Dark circles shadow her eyes, loose strands slipping free from her braid. We’re both about tapped out.

I take my plate to the sink and glance out the window. A strip of blue cuts through the clouds. In a matter of minutes, this quiet will be gone. This is my last chance to talk with her alone.

“Kit,” I say, turning to her. “I want you to know how much I appreciate you taking care of me.”

Her brows lift. “You appreciate me.”

“Yeah. No.” I wince. “That’s not what I meant. Not exactly. I don’t just appreciate you. I value you.”

She stands and loads the dishwasher with deliberate care. I’m screwing this up.

The snowplow sounds like it’s right outside the window.

“Listen,” I say quietly. “I’m not saying this right.”