He looks away, jaw tight. “I never said you were.”
“I should head back to sleep,” I say, suddenly feeling awkward, the fragile truce between us threatening to shatter.
As if on cue, my stomach lets out a loud, betraying growl. It’s a sound so loud and so utterly out of place in the tense quiet of the barn that it’s almost comical.
He’s grabbing his shirt from a hook by the door, and we both turn to look at each other at the same time. And then we burst out laughing.
It’s not a polite little chuckle. It’s a full-throated, belly-deep laugh that shakes my entire body and makes my head ache, but it feels so fucking good to laugh with him after all this time. Like a crack in a dam that’s been holding back a flood of pain and regret for years.
“Did you not eat?” he asks, his laughter subsiding into a warm, easy grin.
“Just cookies,” I admit, my cheeks flushing.
“The sheriff ended up grabbing us some food from town before they locked the place down,” he says, pulling his damp shirt over his head. “There’s some in the kitchen. We can heat it up.”
“Thanks,” I say, my voice soft.
“We’ll have to run for it, though. It’s coming down pretty hard out there.”
“I’m so hungry I can barely care,” I say, and I mean it.
He surprises me by offering his hand. “Come on.”
I surprise myself by taking it. His hand is large and warm, callused from years of hard work, and it engulfs mine completely.
He pulls me toward the door, and we break into a run, dashing out into the torrential downpour. The rain is cold and exhilarating, plastering our clothes to our skin and making it hard to see.
We’re laughing again, like a pair of kids, splashing through the puddles that are forming on the path. We stumble and bump into each other in the dark, our bodies colliding in a clumsy intimacy.
He catches me, his arm wrapping around my waist to steady me, and for a second, we’re just standing there in the middle of the storm, holding each other.
He pushes open the kitchen door and flips on the switch. The room is flooded with a soft, yellow glow.
“You okay?” he asks, his voice close to my ear.
“Yeah,” I say, a little breathless. “Just a little headache.”
His hand is slightly cooler as he presses it to my forehead, a gesture so familiar, so caring, it makes my heart ache. He uses the edge of his shirt to wipe at my face, dabbing away the rainwater with a gentleness that belies his rough exterior.
His own hair is dark and wet, a few stray curls clinging to his forehead. I watch him, the way the light catches the scar on his arm, the way his throat works as he swallows. He’s so beautiful it hurts.
He clears his throat, breaking the spell. “There’s some chicken and fries,” he says, turning toward the refrigerator. “Would you want that?”
“Yes,” I say, my voice a little too eager.
I’m a little nervous as I watch him plate the food, his movements sure and practiced. He pops it into the microwave and turns to lean against the counter, his arms crossed over his chest.
“You’re brave,” he says, a teasing note in his voice. “Eating at the ranch again. When I’m halfway sure that’s how you got sick in the first place.”
I laugh, a real, genuine laugh this time. “I don’t think you’d poison me on purpose, Billy.”
He smiles, and it’s a real smile, not a smirk or a grimace. It reaches his eyes, crinkling the corners, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in years.
Then a flash of lightning illuminates the room, and in that brief, brilliant moment, we watch each other from across the kitchen. The storm outside rages, but in here, in this small, warm space, there’s a fragile, tentative peace.
“I don’t think I would hurt you on purpose, Sedona.”
The way my name sounds on his lips is a physical blow. It’s not an accusation, just a simple, stated fact, but it unravels me.
