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“Here’s the thing, Siren. I’m not feeling a lot of water dripping through. But you can hear it raining out there, right?”
I look up at the ceiling. Now that he says so, I notice the low hum, but prior to now, I hadn’t. I nod quickly, as if to say of course.
“That tells me one of two things: either there’s a larger stone up top, blocking the rain, or it’s a pile of smaller stones that’s pretty thick.”
My belly flip-flops.
“Don’t worry. We can figure out which one is true, and we can do it faster if you’ve got something like a long antennae or some tent joints in that pack of yours. I can use something long and straight to poke up through the rocks and see if I can tell where the pile-up seems to end. If it’s stacked pretty thick above us, might make sense to wait till daylight to start digging. See if any sunlight can get through, and if so, where.”
I shut my eyes and use some of the Lamaze breathing Anna and I learned for Kayti’s birth. When I open them, he’s crouched down just in front of me, rubbing a fingertip over the damp floor.
“What I’m hearing,” I say sharply, “is you’d like me to sleep here inside this…burrow. With you.”
His somber face transforms as his lips twitch into a tiny smile. “With me? You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
I snort. “Oh, I wonder why that is.”
He shakes his head once. “Listen, Siren—I’m the one who’s gonna dig you out of here. I just helped you heard a bunch of sheep, and then I saved you from ending up under a ton of rock. I was a dick the other night, but that was then, and it was a one-time thing. You caught me at a bad moment. From this point on, I’m your partner.”
I can’t help myself—I howl. “My partner!” My head is thrown back as I cackle evilly, trying to decide which of his comments is the most offensive. Is it the notion that I couldn’t dig myself out, or his seeming assurance that I’ll simply move on from what happened last night and be his “partner?” When I recover—my head is pounding—I find him standing with his big, thick arms folded in front of his chest, peering down his nose at me.
“My partner…” I throw my head back once more, wiping pretend tears from my eyes. “Quite the comedian, are we?”
His lips twitch in a smirk—or stifled smile—as he shakes his head. “I get the feeling that I’m not appreciated.”
“How astute of you.”
His mouth rounds into an “o” of mock offense. “I’m wounded.”
“If only.” His jaw drops even as he’s laughing, and I aim an awful look his way. “I’m not your siren, so let’s get that bit settled. We’re not friends or family, therefore no pet names shall be required. Thirdly, I suspect what you are actually saying is you’re worried that the pile of rocks may collapse, and if that happens wrongly, we’ll be stuck here.”
Cold sweat glimmers through me even as I go on in a steady voice. “I agree that seems a danger. Other things for you to know: I don’t need you to dig me out.” I hold my hands up. “I’ve got these, and they both work quite nicely.” I tap my head. “This is full as well, and although I concur we should perhaps wait for some sunlight—and to see if rescuers arrive—before we poke the beast, and that means technically you and I agree, I don’t want to be partners. I’m not forgetting how you behaved before because it’s relevant to who you are.”
He gives a low whistle that echoes through the burrow. “Ouch.”
“I doubt quite a bit that anyone is ever honest with you, Homer.” I hold up my hand, as if I’m pledging. “I will be. My hands work well enough, but I’d prefer you dig us out with yours while I sit back and think up a new knitting pattern. My service to you in return can be my honesty.”
One of his cheeks curves, a dimple appearing near his mouth. “I’ve always been a fan of English accents. Got a couple friends from England. But yours is different. A little Scottish sounding, maybe a little bit of Welsh. I like the softness of it.”
I roll my eyes. “I do so value your assessment.” A bit of Welsh; is he brainless? “I’ll do you the favor of not commenting on your accent.”
Again, I’m rewarded by a widening of his eyes and a small part of his lips before he grins as if he’s pleasantly surprised. “Are you insulting my accent?” He tilts his head, folding his arms again.
I smile back cheekily. “Not yours specifically.”
“I think I get it. You’re an American-hater.”
“Whatever gave you that impression?”
His brows furrow. Then he shakes his head, smiling like he thinks I’m quite the rogue. “Could it be a lewd encounter with a shameless interloper?”
“Dammit, woman. What does a guy have to do to say he’s sorry?”
I stretch my fingers out in front of me, peering critically down at the dirt under my nails. “Oh, I don’t know. For behavior like that, it might take two or three apologies…especially when the offender has got the innocent party trapped inside a burrow.”
He sighs as he crouches back down. “Last night was a shitty night for me. That’s no excuse. I was a dick, and I regret it. You might not believe me, but that’s not how I usually am. I’m…I don’t know. Honestly, I’m kind of a nice guy.”
I pick at my cuticle, and he gives a soft laugh. “C’mon, Finley.” I look up to find his hand in his hair. That must be his nervous habit, and I find I like it. I like that he’s nervous, that he feels sorry for his knob-headed behavior.
