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His heated gaze. His impossible words.
The way he’s driving me crazy.
“I’m done talking about this,” I tell him sternly because…
Because he’s kidding, isn’t he?
About the phone, the dress, the pretend threats.
Everything.
He’s kidding abouteverything.
“But I haven’t even gotten to the good part yet.”
“I don’t want to hear the good part.”
“It’s the part where I lie about my car breaking down at the exact spot where my friend’s cabin is so I could bring you to it.” I open my mouth to say something, but he speaks over me. “And one hint: it’s not to kill you and dump your body.”
I wish it was though.
In this moment, that’s exactly my wish.
Because if he doesn’t then I’ll have to live. I realize that now.
He isn’t killing me with his words. He’s giving me life.
Too much of it.
So now I’ll have to run his words in my head over and over for years to come. I’ll have to hear them every time I’m alone, every time I’m in a crowd, every time I draw a breath. I’ll have to dream about the way he looks right now: his hair all damp from the snow, the fire at his back making his skin glow.
Most of all I’ll have to spend an eternity analyzing the look in his eyes.
It’s fierce, yes.
All intense and heated, much like the fire.
But there’s a hint of something there that I don’t know if I’m reading right.
It looks like helplessness. It looks like agitation too.
A mix of anger and torture.
I have to ask then.
I have to ask what he’sdoing.
“You’re not kidding, are you?”
“No.”
“Not even a little bit?”
“Not even a little bit.”
“And you’re telling me all this, everything you did, because?”
“I’m telling you all this, everything I did, because I think…”
