“But she wanted in,” Fletcher finished.
“When I turned down the chief marketing officer job because I wanted to do my own thing, Eliza told me she didn’t think it was going to work out between us.”
Thunder boomed, close enough to rattle Fletcher’s single, shameful cavity.
“When?” Fletcher’s voice caught. “When did she break it off?”
The timeline scrolled behind her eyes, all the ticks lining up. Some part of her already knew the answer, but she had to hear him say it.
“Right before the charity gala. The night we met.”
That version of Waylon transposed over the one standing in front of her. Disheveled and devilish, a chilled glass in hand. Heartbroken? She hadn’t seen it then for what it was, but now it was all too obvious.
And Fletcher, stressed out and sad and ashamed of the way he made her feel, she’d rubbed his family name in his face. Accused him of being nothing without it.
A sheet of rain pummeled down from the heavens, heavier than before.
They needed to keep moving.
Fletcher picked up her pace, elbowing through the knotted lianas at the river’s edge. Behind them, Rick fussed with loading another round.Excellent.
“Keep running,” Rick called. “I love the chase.”
A bullet strayed a yard or so wide of them. A yard or so too close.
“A little to your left next time,” Waylon shouted.
Rick happily obliged. Although this shot veered way too far left, missing them by several tree trunks. Waylon skidded to a stop, spraying dirt up with his heels. In the slick mud, Fletcher only barely caught herself before plummeting into the river.
Fletcher seethed, “Are you trying to get us killed?”
A serious hand landed on her arm as Waylon turned her toward him. Droplets clung to his hair, his eyelashes, the tip of his nose. “I would never let anyone hurt you.”
Despite everything—or, maybe, because of everything—she knew he wasn’t lying. For better or worse, Waylon was a man of his word. Never said anything he didn’t mean. Never meant anything he didn’t say.
It helped that her only other option was to have Asshole Rick be the last thing she saw while trapped in this mortal coil.
“Okay.”
Which was all the answer Waylon needed to hoop an arm around her waist, drawing Fletcher to his chest. His other arm reached overhead and dragged down a vine as thick as his bicep. “Grab on.”
She didn’t exactly have much of a choice. As soon as she did, Waylon kicked off the ledge of the bank and swung them out over the water.
Water where, for the record, a couple hungry-looking crocodiles slithered.
Fletcher pinched her eyes closed, sinking into the soft folds of Waylon’s rain-drenched shirt. Focusing on the way the crook of his neck smelled like salt and sun and the estate’s cedar soap. How the hurried beat of his heart matched hers. She braced for a crash landing on the opposite bank, the scrape of earth against skin.
When she peeled her eyes back open, they hadn’t moved.
Instead ofGeorge of the Jungle-ing them to the other side, Waylon had stranded them over the river’s middle.
Her fingertips ached around the vine, knuckles white from the strain. Regret simmered in her blood. “I thought you had a plan.Thiswas your brilliant idea?”
“Yes,” he said proudly.
They were nothing better than live bait.
Something sparkled in Waylon’s eyes. Something that made Fletcher keenly aware of how close they were. “Have a little faith, honey.”
