Page 38

“Fuck me,” I groan, massaging my temples.

Great. Just . . . great. I twist in bed and hiss when my weight comes down on my hand.

“The fuck?”

I raise my arm and stare at my hand, the bruises around my knuckles. What—

Oh. Right. I punched someone last night. Just before Oliver came to pick me up . . .

Fuck.

I can’t believe I pulled him into my mess. What must he think of me? Nothing good, I’m sure, but again, I don’t think he’s had a very high opinion of me since meeting me yesterday.

Snippets of last night in his kitchen, our exchange, the words that came out of my mouth, everything rushes through my mind as clear as day, and I pull the covers over my head.

Shit. I was harsh. They say alcohol brings out the truth, and I suppose that in my case, it did not take much to coax it out of me.

I regretted the words as soon as they were out of my mouth. Poor guy was just trying to help. Did help. And all I had to do was to thank him for the kindness he’d shown me and go to bed.

But nooo.

Charlee had to do what Charlee does best: Run. Put up walls and barricade herself behind them. Leave no survivors.

But the worry in his hazelnut eyes made me weak like a kid in front of a treat. Just one candy, I promise.

It was the soothing notes in his voice when he talked to me that almost did it, the way his body seemed to angle itself in my direction, as if he was holding himself back from touching me, checking me, making sure I was all right.

Red alert.

I came so close to caving in. That’s what scared me shitless.

I’d almost forgotten that the man my heart raced for every time I saw his handwriting on an envelope had never shown up in Calgary five Junes ago.

That I’d stood at the airport terminal, alone, for hours, hoping he was just running late.

I never got an explanation. Never received another word.

Only silence.

Loud, screaming silence.

It was as if he’d vanished into thin air and the person I’d been communicating with for almost a year was nothing more than a figment of my imagination.

That was a good reminder to have last night. Maybe too good? Because add to that his sweet and caring attitude toward me, and it was enough to trigger my fight-or-flight response—actually, my fight-and-flight response.

Two birds, one stone. Putting a necessary distance between us, drawing a clear line that cannot be crossed.

I stretch my tired limbs and check the clock. Oliver would hate my guts—if he doesn’t already—if I woke him up at four a.m. when our departure time isn’t for another four hours.

Today marks the start of our two-week journey. And my feet are aching to get moving. A long, hot bath. That’s what I need to quiet my jittery nerves and enjoy some last-minute luxury before I spend the next two weeks washing my body in makeshift showers.

I walk softly to the bathroom down the hall and pull my tank top over my head as I open the door to a distraught voice.

“Occupied!”

My eyes land on Oliver. In the bathtub. Naked. With barely enough soap to cover his body.

His gorgeous, dripping-wet body.