Page 79 of The Rebel King

He settles beside me and plucks a square of mango from a dish. “Well, if pussy… What was the word?”

“Pusillanimous.” I say it slower and with more resentment. “I know you have words you don’t like.”

“Yes, but my hate words are things likeimpossibleandnoandnever.” He opens his mouth for a forkful of my omelet. “Remember the last time you told me never?”

The memory of us banging in the conference room makes its way from my brain to my nether parts. “Not words likemoistorpanties?”

He cocks one brow and talks around a bite. “When have I ever objected to moist panties?”

I almost spit out my tea, and we laugh like middle schoolers, sharing our breakfast from the tray. He drinks his unleaded coffee, and I sip my tea. It’s one of the rituals we’ve developed in our three weeks here on his Wyoming ranch.

I’d never been to Wyoming before this trip. It’s not exactly a hotly contested swing state or a cornucopia of electoral votes, so in all my travels, it’s never been a campaign stop. I’m glad. I’ve experienced it as it should be—an infinite plain, disturbed only by the rise of mesas, ascendant mountaintops, and sagebrush sprouting from the terrain. Stretches of wilderness, untouched and inhabited only by lazy bison and ambling antelope. Each mile unveils a view more stunning than the next with navy-blue skies and angel-breath clouds tangling around mountain peaks.

When we first arrived, Rick and a full security team trailed us down a long, unpaved road walled in by towering pine trees. It didn’t take long to go from private to remote. I worried we’d have no time alone, but when we reached the gate emblazoned with a heavy brassC, Maxim and I peeled off.

It was just the two of us driving down the winding road to his place, a sprawling homestead with a front porch embracing the entire house. Wide windows invite the sunlight in. The dark floors gleam, dotted with vibrant knotted rugs.

The sunroom overlooking a creek has become my favorite part of this property I love so much. I run the paths most mornings freely since there’s no access other than through the gate and so few people even know this home exists. Some mornings Maxim joins me on my run, but he usually leaves me to it.

I’ve also started smudging each morning on the sun porch. Mena was right. My ancestors intuitively understood the sacred connection with the land—that it could heal us—and during this time away out here in the middle of nowhere, with the sun and sky for company and the mountains for shelter, I’m recovering. That, along with regular video calls to my therapist, has helped with the flashbacks and residual trauma from Costa Rica.

I am getting better.

And I’ve smudged every corner of this huge house. Maxim leaned against the wall, arms folded, curiosity and love in his gaze that tracked me walking from room to room waving out the negative energy with my smoky sage.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks, lifting his brows and piercing the last piece of turkey sausage before offering it up to me. I shake my head that I don’t want it, and he bites into it.

“This place. How much I love it here.” I hesitate and then confess. “Wondering how much longer we can hide out.”

“Hide?” He settles back against the pillows and threads our fingers together on the breakfast tray. “Is that what you think we’re doing?”

“You’re hiding me.” I squeeze his fingers until he meets my eyes. “And as much as I’ve loved it, needed it, I wonder how much longer it can last.”

“Don’t let Jin Lei hear you say that. She loves it here.”

Jin Lei stays in a guest house about a mile away. We see her when she comes once or twice a week to meet with Maxim, giving him papers to sign, updating him on the things he can do from here. I’ve never known him to stay put this long.

“I love it here, too, but Kimba called yesterday.” I run my fingers through his hair, the longest I’ve seen it in a long time. “She’s fielded several calls from candidates asking us to run their campaigns.”

“Isn’t it a bit late to still be assembling a team?”

“It’s only April. Still ten months before Iowa. Plenty of time if you have a foundation.”

He stiffens and flicks a narrow glance up at me. “You’re considering it.”

It sounds like an accusation, and I sigh, bracing for our first argument in three weeks. “How can I not? It’s my job, Doc. It’s not just me. Kimba’s my business partner. I can’t ask her to sit idle while I do whatever we’re doing.”

“Whatever we’re doing.” He huffs a truncated laugh, tosses the down comforter back, and climbs out of bed. “I’m sorry you’re getting bored with ‘whatever we’re doing.’”

“You know I’m not bored, but some of the candidates Kimba mentioned might have a shot if we help them, and Senator Middleton’s position grows stronger every day. He’s the front-runner for the Republicans. If there’s anything I can do to keep that mongrel thief out of the Oval, I have to try.”

Maxim nods but turns his back to me. The sleeping pants cling to the muscled curves of his ass and long legs. He links his fingers behind his head, burying them in the dark strands of his hair. The wide plateau of his back tightens with the movement but also with new tension.

He strides out to the balcony off the bedroom. Diaphanous curtains billow back and forth, in and out with the breeze. I slip a heavy silk robe over my nightgown and grab his Berkeley hoodie from the bench at the foot of our bed.

Ourbed.Ourplace.Ourlife here.

It’s the first time we’ve ever been in the same place this long, and it does feel like we actually share a life. I don’t want it to end, but we can’t hunker down here forever just in case Gregory Keene decides he wants to try something.

---