Page 23 of When Glitter Meets Gold

The corner of his lips twitch.

My eyes track the gesture, watching him a moment too long to figure out what I just witnessed. It couldn’t possibly be a smile.

Whatever it was, it’s gone now.

I shrug, popping another piece of mango into my mouth. “But seriously, what do you eat out here?” I try not to focus on his obnoxiously large biceps when I consider that a physique like his needs more fuel than a handful of almonds and processed, dried meat.

“Fish mostly. Caught a couple earlier. This stuff comes in handy in times like these.” He motions to the container before a huge gust of wind howls around the tent, sending thewallsshuddering.

“Are we okay in here?” I ask, shifting away from the quivering exterior, and closer to the center of the tent. Something about my movement causes him to stiffen. Perhaps I’ve crawled too close to him, invaded his personal space. I shuffle back an inch, noting how a muscle in his jaw eases when I do so. “I mean, what if we get a leak?”

“Impossible,” he replies proudly above the tapping of raindrops. “This thing could survive a tornado. Sturdier than a house. You’re safe here.”

The claim forces my eyebrows to rise while I bite back the urge to list the reasons he can’t compare a house to asagging tent. Instead, I manage to obscure my reaction with another inspection of my surroundings.

As far as my tent expertise goes, I conclude thatsaggingis perhaps un unfair description. The lining is tightly sewn and double layered in the areas where it matters, and although the material shakes against the battering wind, the rods that hold the structure above our head stand firm. Stronger than a raincoat after all. In fact, all his equipment looks to be on the fancier end of the scale. An almost-compliment nearly slips from my lips, but when I turn to find his gaze already resting on me, it hangs in the air unspoken.

“What exactly were you doing on that abandoned road?” His voice is different now, laced with a trickle of suspicion. “How did you end up crashing?”

Ah.

The part I’d gone over in my head a hundred times already. If only to invent a different account, which didn’t begin with,there was this bee…

“I was just exploring.” I rearrange my sweater as a chill snakes up my back, causing me to shiver. “I suppose I took a wrong turn. My screen fogged up…somehow, and I lost control.”

Jack remains still, his eyes straining as though considering if he buys my excuse. Eventually, he shrugs, and, I guess, decides demolishing a tough strip of jerky is a better use of his energy than grilling me.

“You’re lucky to be alive. Not many people walk out of car wrecks without so much as a scratch to show for it.” His eyes dip for a moment. “I’m . . . sorry I couldn’t get you out of here before the storm. You should be with a doctor right now.” He jams the empty jerky packet into the side compartment of his bag.

“I don’t think I need a doctor. I feel fine, apart from my ankle, but I’m sure it’s just a sprain.” I shiver again, then realize I haven’t thought about the minor injury for the past hour, noting how the pain has dulled.

He’s right, things probably could’ve been a lot worse. I suppose I’ve been too wrapped up in everything else to consider how lucky I am to be alive.

I’ve been consumed with other more pressing thoughts. Anxiety inducing things like where I’m going to pee, because although Jack’s bag holds a multitude of supplies, I don’t think a toilet is included in the mix. I chew on that thought, mulling over the impossibly ironic situation I find myself in.

How did I end up here? Trapped somewhere in the depths of the wildernesswith the very man who made me the nature-hating human I am today. How did the long-haired boy from my childhood find me all the way out here? God, I hate this.

“What?” Jack looks up, my trance disappearing in a puff of smoke.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You just said you hate this.”

Oh.So, I’d been voicing my internal thoughts aloud.Great.

When I make no attempt to convince him I said otherwise, he fills the silence with his low, bored tones. “I get it. You hate trees, and rain, and moss, and being anywhere you could get mud on your shoes. And, if you are who you say you are, I get that I could be partially responsible for that, but?—”

My jaw hangs open. “If I am who I say I am?” My brows knit together before I splutter, “And you areentirelyresponsible for the way I am now.”

Jack rakes a hand through his hair before fluffing up a sleeping bag.

“I was a dumb kid. I don’t do that kind of shit anymore. But if you’ve reached this age and you crash your car because you fogged up your windshield with insect repellent”—I gasp— “yeah, I recognized the smell when I pulled you from the car, then that’s on you.”

The painstaking arrogance returns with blinding force. I swear I liked this man better when he was bleeding to death.

I can’t believe I mentioned my screen fogging up earlier. Worse, I can’t believe he’s pieced together the embarrassing truth.

I shuffle uncomfortably, knowing that the only acceptable course of action is to deny his accusations. I draw in a breath like I’m about to deliver the damning evidence that would see the accused doomed for an eternity.

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