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But there’s also a chance they aren’t.
I creep close, but not too close. The hammock’s fabric keeps me from seeing the person’s face, and I don’t want to lean over and expose myself. Knife clenched in my fist, I position myself about six feet from the head of the hammock. I feel nauseous, shaky, and unprepared to face off with anyone.
Here we go.
“Can I help you?” my voice cuts through the quiet. Pride soars when it sounds controlled, braver than I feel.
The figure in the hammock stirs to life. I tense. It’s a man. I see the back of his head. Dark hair, chaotic in a way that’s so Shane it makes my heart ache.
Don’t go there.
Focus.
The man turns, swinging his legs over the near side of the hammock. My jaw drops. It’s Shane. In my hammock, in the woods at a campground over an hour from his house. My heart wants to turn cartwheels, but my brain won’t let it.
“Claire,” his voice is rough, sleepy.
Sexy.
No, don’t go there.
He drags a hand through his hair, making it wilder. There’s stubble on his jaw, and he’s looking at me with an expression I can’t place. My ribcage is cracking open. I want him gone. I want my peaceful morning back.
“Why are you in my hammock?”
“You weren’t answering your phone,” he sounds wounded.
Mr. moves-in-new-prey-before-I’m-even-gone is hurt by a few missed calls? I almost tell him there’s no signal, but bite my tongue. Not his business. The contract’s up. I owe him nothing.
“How did you find me?” the question comes out as sharp as the knife in my hand.
“Sydney told me you were camping.” Shane rises from the hammock, starting toward me. Whatever he sees on my face stops him, and he straightens his shirt. He’s wearing jeans, hiking boots, and the T-shirt I wore out of the woods the day we saw the bear.
His words sink in.
“You went to my apartment? Why?”
He takes my confusion as a green light, coming closer. I glare at him. He freezes again, hands rising in a placating gesture.
“To apologize.”
I want him to say it, to admit what he did was fucked up. “For what?”
Shane grimaces. “For being a jackass. I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”
“Sophia didn’t hurt me,” I lie. “What hurt me was that you didn’t say goodbye; you just left.”
He opens his mouth and then closes it. “Wait. What about Sophia?”
“Your new prey.“ Fuck, I wish I could be nonchalant, but I can’t. “Margot was settling her in. She’s pretty. I’m sure you’ll enjoy her.”
“Claire, no. It’s not like that. I swear.” He takes another step and eyeballs the knife. “Can I come closer, please? Or are you going to stab me?”
I glance down at the knife. My knuckles are pale from how tightly I’m gripping it. “Yeah.” Setting it down, I fidget, suddenly unsure what to do with my hands.
“Sophia isn’t prey. She’s Margot’s sister. Her apartment is getting painted or something, I don’t know. She needed somewhere to crash for a few nights.” He gives me an incredulous look. “Do you really think I’d do that? Hire someone else?”
“It’s just business,” as I say it, I feel in my bones how wrong that is. There’s nothing business-like about the way he’s looking at me. “Why wouldn’t you? You don’t owe me anything.” I glare at him. “Except goodbye, that would have been nice.”
