Page 65 of What Remains

Quite the transition—from killing fifteen people alongside Zoey in the jungle a night and a half ago . . . to shopping for underwear next to Gwen this morning. But screw it. I suppose shopping with her is healthier than flipping around in my bed upstairs, drowning in memories from that island.

“We’re going to have a look around the new store,” Gwen warns Malachi, “not committing a B and E. Promise.”

He smiles. “Enjoy yourselves.” The man winks, knowing exactly what kind of trouble I might get myself into up there alone with Gwen. He loves this, doesn’t he?

I nod my goodbye, and as we make our way to the elevators, I shake my head as I realize I’m staring at her ass. It’s perfectly encased in her black leggings as she skips ahead of me, as if her world didn’t flip the other day. I’d like to blame jet lag for my inability to unglue my damn eyes from the area I have the urge to swat for making me shop. But something tells me that’s not the reason.

Gwen presses the button for the lift, and . . .

Did I just refer to the elevator as a lift?

Great, now she’s turning me into an Ameri-Brit. Next thing I know, I’ll be saying bloody hell.

I shake my head as the doors open and follow her inside. My heart slams against my rib cage as I remember the last time I was in this metal box. When she cornered me on the snowy deck before I went on the op with Zoey.

I keep my eyes on the floor as we rise, because memories of the last thirty-six hours will rip through my mind like a tornado if I let them. And the point of this trip upstairs, aside from buying clothes, is to get both our minds out of that hell.

“E?” she whispers.

I take my time to work my way up to her face. From her black running shoes to the little fitted zip-up top she has on. Her blonde hair is in a ponytail, and she’s licking her bottom lip as if searching for gloss she probably forgot to put on.

“Yeah?” I finally answer as the doors part.

“Thank you for this.” It’s a quiet statement as she pushes away from the wall, but the meaning is loud in my head.

I wait for her to exit first. Not just to see her ass in those stretchy black things painted onto her legs, but because that’s the gentlemanly thing to do. And maybe so she can’t see my reaction to her.

She swipes her keycard outside the store and punches in the code, and two frosted glass doors part open. Still has that fresh paint smell as we walk in, and she types in a code so the doors seal behind us.

Trapped with her in a store. Alone. Perfect.

Flipping on only one set of lights, she doesn’t waste time, going straight for the men’s section. The place looks like a Nordstrom, but probably one-twentieth of the size. Too damn expensive for me, that’s for sure.

“Okay, for a guy, cotton is the OG of underwear fabrics. Doubt you’re the satin type.” She trails her index finger along a stack of gray boxer-briefs on a table. “Cotton isn’t good for working out, though. So, you probably need a few nylon or spandex brands, too.”

God help me, this woman is actually picking out my skivvies.

She tosses a couple at me. Settling on some Ralph Lauren and Lululemon ones. Even gets my size right. I’m almost offended. Almost. But the fact she knows I do need room for my rather large⁠—

“Okay, next.” She claps her hands, and she appears excited to be doing this.

Who knew getting to dress me would be such a mood lifter for her? Now I have no choice but to let her have fun. Gotta keep her happy.

“T-shirts. Workout shorts,” she continues. “New kicks, for sure. And maybe we’ll hit the indoor pool at some point, so you need swim trunks.” She eyes me up and down. “Unless you prefer speedos?”

She already knows the answer to that. “Not a speedo guy.” I set the underwear aside for now and follow her around, doing whatever she says like I’m some golden retriever, not the killer I was on that island. The whiplash between those two versions of me should be illegal.

She holds a shirt up to my chest to check for the size, and I’m grateful she didn’t need to do that for the boxer-briefs. “Oh yeah, this is good. Love white on you.”

“White is bad for operating,” I grunt, and she knows that.

She tosses the Under Armour tee on the stack of items she’s collecting for me. “So don’t wear it while on ops. Easy fix.” She shrugs and moves on. “Oh, yes. Yes, yes, yes. Try this quarter-zip on for me. They’re all the rage.” Her eyes light up, and I don’t stand a chance.

I drop my chin, examining the damn thing as if she’s offering a thong instead. “Really?”

“Yup.” She lets the P pop, and my gaze snaps to her mouth—too fast, too hungry—like I have no damn control over myself. “You can put it over your tee since I know you don’t want me getting a look at your back.”

I took enough ibuprofen for a horse before my head hit the pillow last night, so I’m doing okay. Just surface wounds. Nothing major. Not compared to the shit in my head, anyway.