Page 26 of A Fighting Chance

“I will murder you in your sleep,” I say, turning sharply toward him.

His footsteps stop their approach to the truck and he looks around—left and right, back at the house, then back to me again. “How?”

“With a pillow?”

“Does that mean you’d be on top of me?” he teases.

I roll my eyes at him and shake my head. Despite myself, I smile. Then we get into the truck and make the short drive to the cabin. I leave his question unanswered as we enter the cabin. Harper sees Gentry and gives me a look of approval, but I roll my eyes at her, too. We all start carrying bags out to the truck and throwing them in.

“Let’s wrap up for the day. It’s not like this place is going anywhere. We don’t have to do it all today,” Harper says after we have the place half-empty. “Plus, I don’t want to waste the whole Saturday on it.”

I agree with her on this point. She deserves some relaxation. I throw the bags I have into the back and watch Gentry do the same. His muscles flex and his T-shirt rides up. Harper finishes locking up the cabin and I look at the truck. It isn’t exactly a big truck. It’s an old small pick-up with a bench seat inside, and we’re going to be cozy in there.

Gentry climbs into the driver’s seat and I wait for Harper by the passenger door. She starts walking toward me and points for me to get in. I point for her to get in. We both silently mouth “GET IN” at each other and take turns pointing again. Ultimately, I lose when she crosses her arms over her chest and starts tapping her foot.

I roll my eyes at my little sister and crawl into the cab.

Gentry’s arm is across the back of the seat, and he’s sitting slightly turned in the bench seat, as if welcoming me into the embrace of his open arm. Smug smile and all.

“Stop it,” I say.

“I’m not doing anything,” he says, putting his hands up in protest.

My sister gets in next and this forces me to sit so close to Gentry our legs touch. They don’t just touch, they’re practically glued against each other from hip to knee. I can feel the heat from his long leg pressed against mine for the entire ride. I’m just glad the damn thing isn’t a stick shift and he doesn’t have to reach between my legs for the gears at this point.

When we park, I press against Harper to get out of the truck but, of course, she’s taking her time. She opens the door and hops out, but not before giving Gentry a very long and sincere thanks for his help.

I turn to exit but feel his grip on my arm just above the elbow, and he turns me back to him. He pulls me in very closely and tucks my hair back, then leans in to whisper against the skin of my jaw. “Don’t be afraid of me,” he says, his voice low and wanting. Then, as quickly as he grabbed me and pulled me back, he lets me go and exits the truck.

The moment is gone, lost in the breeze.

I sit in the truck alone, catching my breath and wondering if Iamactually afraid of him.

Nine

Gentry

I toldher not to be afraid of me, but she should be. She should be afraid of me because my intentions are not pure. Not even close. I don’t know why but something about Lyla drives me nuts. Her body, the banter, all of it. It’s like I can’t help myself. Like I have no restraint. And that’s bullshit but part of me doesn’t want to restrain anything. I want to press forward. Into whatever is happening. Into the abyss. Into her.

Whoa. Calm down, man.

I keep busy over the weekend, working around the farm and in town, figuring some distance from Lyla might help. Of course, that’s bullshit too. No amount of distance is going to help this situation. I’m acutely aware of her at all times, no matter where I am. As if we both have giant magnets in our pockets and I can feel the pull. Or maybe my magnet is stuffed down the front of my pants. Who knows at this point? What I do know, is it’s terribly inconvenient for her room to be so close to mine. I listen for her all the time. I watch her all the time. I’m starting to feel like a stalker. I have no shame. At least none I can seem to locate.

On Sunday morning, I’m in the barn when Harper walks in, making a line straight for me. I’m nearly wincing as she reaches me, not knowing what this is about.

Is she about to get all weird and protective about her sister?

Is she going to tell me to back off or face facts?

Because believe me, I’m trying. As best as I can, anyway. I might not be doing a very good job, admittedly.

Harper stops a few short steps from me and puts her hands on her hips. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”

I look down, confused. I have a saddle in one hand and polish in the other. “Polishing this saddle.”

She rolls her eyes at me. “Don’t be a smartass and don’t be a dummy.” She moves her hands from her hips and folds them across her chest.

She really means business when she does this, so I set the polish down and face her. “Harper, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say, at least I don’t think I do. But I find sometimes when women start talking, I know more than I think I know.

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