Page 52 of Seale the Deal

I lay her down as gently as I can. She flops on her side with a groan, mutters something about the ceiling spinning, and then, mercifully, goes still.

I breathe out a sigh of relief as I grab a blanket folded at the end of her bed and make my way to the too-small tub chair in the corner. It’s not going to be comfortable, but I’m not going far. Not tonight.

Ruger? Her voice is soft, half-mumbled, half-sincere.

Yeah? I glance back at her.

Thanks for taking care of me, she whispers. Even though I’m just the fake fiancée, I hope my face isn’t too mangled. Wouldn’t want you to be embarrassed to marry me.

I huff a quiet laugh and shake my head, settling into the chair.

Wren, I murmur, tugging the blanket over myself, you could have two black eyes and a broken nose, and I’d still say I got the better end of the deal.

She smiles, barely there, but enough.

Then, without thinking, I add, Get some sleep, baby.

You could hear a pin drop in the silence that follows that sentence.

Shit.

I hear the faint rustle of blankets as she shifts, and for one agonizing second, I think she’s going to say something. But she doesn’t. She just exhales, and the room goes still.

I close my eyes, my ears still burning from what I said. I remind myself that she has dreams bigger than Alpine Harbor, and this town is all I can give her. Yet here, in this small space where it’s just the two of us, it’s so damn easy to imagine this is all she needs.

I don’t remember falling asleep, but judging by the sharp, radiating pain in my neck and lower back, I definitely did. Apparently, the world’s smallest accent chair wasn’t designed to hold a full-grown man.

The second thing I feel is panic. Wrenley’s bed is empty. I jolt upright so fast that the blanket I’d draped over myself tumbles to the floor. I press a hand to her side of the mattress. It’s cold.

Shit.

I make it to the door in four strides, scanning the hallway like I’m on a search-and-rescue mission. Every room up here is empty. By the time I’m taking the stairs down two at a time, my brain is spiralling. Visions of her passed out on the porch or hiking barefoot toward the Canadian border with a slow brain bleed play through my mind like a silent film from hell.

Then I hit the kitchen, and that’s where I find her.

Messy curls. Bare face. One sock. My hoodie hangs off her like it was made for her. And most importantly, she’s upright. She’s hunched over the table like she just lost a bar fight to the bottle of Merlot from last night and a Kodiak bear this morning. Her hands are wrapped around a coffee mug like it’s the only thing tethering her to this earthly realm.

I breathe out a long breath. Morning, I say casually, as if I hadn’t just searched the house like a bloodhound looking for a perp.

She groans into her mug like existing is physically painful.

I pour myself a cup of coffee and sit across from her. Feeling that good, huh?

If you don’t stop yelling, she rasps, I’m going to throw this mug at your face.

I lean in, voice low. I’m not yelling.

She squints one bloodshot eye open and waves a hand at me. Your morning breath is worse than the pitch of your voice.

I laugh, totally unoffended.

She tries to glare, but it’s barely threatening. Mostly adorable.

I take a sip of my coffee. This is nice.

She blinks at me like I’ve grown antlers. You’re insane.

Maybe. But still, it’s nice. Hot coffee made by someone else. You.