Page 11 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

“I’m not built for the woods,” she mutters.

“I could’ve told you that after watching you fight with the screen door.”

“It attacked me first, ” she adds.

“You pulled it off the hinge, ” I argue.

“It was loose.”

I lean against the counter, watching her struggle to bandage her thumb. “Want help?”

“I’ve got it.”

She doesn’t. I take the wrap from her, gently tugging her hand toward me.

“Don’t say anything,” she warns.

“I’m not.” I wrap her hand carefully, slowly. She watches me, quiet now. The kind of quiet that isn’t annoyed. Just still.

“You’re good at that,” she murmurs.

“First aid was part of the Grayson King Boy Scout trauma package.”

She tries to smile but it slips. “I hate being bad at things.”

I nod. “I know.”

She looks down at our hands. I don’t let go right away. We finish cleaning up the cabin together, Margot with a mop she doesn’t trust, me trying not to laugh every time she complains about dust being a “whole personality” here.

Later, we sit in front of the fireplace, cross-legged on opposite ends of the couch. She’s bundled in one of the throw blankets, her laptop balanced on her knees.

“I’ve been reviewing the patch logs,” she says. “There’s a pattern. A signature almost. Whoever sabotaged it, they were careful, but they weren’t perfect.”

I nod. “We’ll find them.”

She glances up. “You really believe that?”

“I believe in you.”

The silence that follows is warm and heavy, crackling like the fire between us. We’re still figuring out how to exist in this space—between enemies and lovers, coworkers and almost-somethings. And right now, we’re surviving on black coffee, bad plumbing, and whatever this strange, frustrating comfort is between us. And it’s working, barely.

After hours hunched over her laptop, Margot steps outside to clear her head. I hear the screen door creak and slam, followed by a sudden shriek.

“Grayson!”

I’m out of my chair before she finishes the second syllable. She’s on the porch, barefoot, one hand held up like she’s spotted a bear.

“It’s a raccoon,” she hisses, voice caught somewhere between alarm and disbelief. “It’s staring at me.Like it knows something.”

I step out beside her, blinking against the light. Sure enough, there it is, a fat raccoon perched regally on the porch railing, its nose twitching in lazy judgment, tail curled like it’s posing for a wilderness portrait. The damn thing looks like it pays rent.

“Maybe he thinks you’re trespassing,” I offer, biting back a grin.

Margot glares. “This isn’t funny. Do something.”

I grab the nearest object, a battered broom propped by the door, and brandish it like an ancient relic of war. “Shoo!”

The raccoon blinks once. Unimpressed. I lunge forward with theatrical menace. He doesn’t flinch, he yawns.

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