Page 22 of Burn the Wild

“And you’re already a pain in my ass,” she snaps back.

I take a sharp right onto a thin dirt road. “Good. One thing we agree on, honey.”

Her eyes flash with annoyance. “Don’t call me honey.”

Honey.Princess. Sweetheart. Lukewarm terms of endearment that let me keep women at a distance.

We drive the rest of the way in silence. The jingle of her bangles set my teeth on edge, but I keep my mouth shut. I’ve already argued to my limit today.

I slow when we reach the West Chalets. The large, storybook-looking homes sit at the edge of the forest, pressed up against the mountains and surrounded by untouched wilderness. Across the shimmering lake, the East Chalets mirror their charm. Both groups of chalets are a good fifteen-minute walk from the Lodge, far enough to feel secluded but close enough to remain connected.

I park in a clearing and cut the engine.

Reese faces me, wide-eyed. “All the way out here?”

“Privacy, princess. Thought you’d like it.”

As Reese gets out of the UTV, she freezes. Closing her eyes, her head inclines to the south. “There’s water around?”

“Good ear.” I nod at a pale buttercream two-story chalet to my right. “There’s a lake about ten yards past that chalet.”

Her gaze drifts to the forest. “Can I have that one?”

I shrug. “Suit yourself.”

She reaches for her bags, but I beat her to it. As I grab them, my hand brushes her arm, and a sizzling scorch dances over my skin. Warm, sweet, electric. I don’t move away as fast as I should, probably because some fucked-up part of me wants to hang onto that feeling as long as I can.

“This all you got?” I ask, clearing my throat. “A duffel bag and a guitar?”

The smile she gives me is dim. “Sounds like a country song.”

I almost chuckle.

Hefting her bags, I trudge across rock and grass. At the door, I fish through the ring of keys I grabbed earlier. Inside, I flip the lights. Behind me, Reese’s boots make sharp clicks on the wide-plank pine floors, the sound echoing up into the cathedral ceiling above.

I drop her bags on the kitchen table. “Here you go, honey. Home sweet fucking home.”

She stares at me for a long minute before her eyes move around the space.

Mine follow. Downstairs is one large living space. There’s a mini kitchen next to a plush bed. Upstairs, an alcove with a sitting room and a rock wall fireplace.

I cross the floor and head into the kitchen. A lace-curtained window over the sink looks out onto the small back porch. The yard’s a tangled, snarled mess. Shit.

Annoyed that I care, I turn, ready to tell her goodbye, tell her she’s on her own. But the words catch in my throat when I see her unpacking her duffel bag. A box of hair coloring. A laptop. Some files. A small stack of bright clothing and high heels. A tube of Pringles.

My stomach turns. I flinch at the meager contents. That’s it? Everything she needs, everything important to her, crammed into one fancy fucking duffel bag.

That’s when I spy a bottle of pills.

Fuck.

I think of Ruby. I think of myself. I think this is getting way more complicated than I need.

“Look,” I say, wiping a layer of dust from the countertop. “We don’t want trouble here.”

This time, those big green eyes lock onto mine, her lips quirking as if I amuse her. “You think I’m on the run from bad guys? Don’t worry. I can take care of myself.”

I highly doubt that. The strain on her face, the hunch of her shoulders, tell a different story. She looks ill at ease. Exhausted. Almost fragile. Like she’s barely keeping it together.

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