Page 7 of Wild Peak

She huffs and mutters something in her sleep, shifting against the sun-warmed cushions. Fighting a smile, I set the tray down and kneel at her side.

“Okay. Have it your way.”

My fingers pluck at her boot laces, trying to loosen the crazy-tight knot she tied. They’re double, triple knotted, and I squint and curse as I work the laces free.

A critter nearby squeaks and chatters in its tree, and the breeze tugs at my collar.

After a while, my sleepy patient grumbles something and reaches out to poke my shoulder. It’s the briefest, most innocent of touches, but the spot where she prodded me tingles beneath my shirt.

More. I always want more.

“Hunter. What are you doing?”

She sounds out of it. Her words have that blurry, half asleep quality of someone who’s hovering between wakefulness and passing out again.

“Loosening your boot,” I tell her. “Your ankle is swelling, and you’ll be more comfortable this way.”

Brooke gusts out a long, tired sigh, then prods me again. This time, her hand stays close, gripping a fistful of my shirt and dangling there against my chest. The warmth of her seeps through the fabric into my skin.

“You’re taking ages.”

I grin. It feels like a foreign expression on my face, even though I swear I used to laugh and joke around a lot. Guess I’ve been more solemn since taking to the woods.

“Well, you locked your boot up tighter than Fort Knox, Brookeworm.”

A dreamy smile passes over her face, and her knuckles brush my chest through the flannel. Her eyes are still closed, and she looks so peaceful that it makes my stomach ache.

“You called me that name again.”

Shit. “Sorry.”

It’s an old habit, but I’d better break it fast. The last thing I ever wanted to do was make Brooke feel like I was teasing her in a bad way. Christ, even thinking about her wondering that, trying to figure out if I was being mean to her when she was always so sweet, so perfect, makes me want to slam my head against the deck railing.

“Don’t be sorry,” she murmurs. “I like it.”

Oh yeah? “A few minutes ago you weren’t so sure.”

Finally, the knot comes loose and I draw on the laces, letting off the pressure on her swelling foot. Brooke makes a small, disgruntled noise and finally opens her eyes, glancing first at her undone boot and then at me. Those hazel irises are all the shades of the forest blurred together.

“Well, now I know for sure it was a cute nickname.” Brooke is still gripping my shirt, that weight tugging lightly on my shoulder. “So I like it after all.”

Honestly, I can’t believe she ever doubted it. That sliver of uncertainty from her makes me feel like such an ass, and she must see the self loathing slide across my face, because Brooke frowns and sits up.

“Hunter. Hey.”

“We should take this boot off altogether.” I move gingerly, sliding the boot free as carefully as I can, but Brooke still hisses and presses her lips together when it jostles her foot. And isn’t that the whole damn problem?

Even when I mean well, even when I try to be a good man, I still hurt this girl. Joking around and making her doubt herself. Tending to her wounds and causing more pain. I’m helpless to it. So fucking fallible.

“Woah.” Brooke whistles when she sees the full damage on her ankle for the first time: the swollen, bruised mess already straining against her sock. I peel that off too, frowning when the back of it comes away blood-specked. What the hell? The sock drops to the deck, and I turn to a guilty-looking Brooke.

“How many secret wounds are you nursing, woman?”

She bites her lip. “That depends. Are we counting the blisters on my heels as two separate injuries?”

“Brooke.”

She bursts out laughing and finally lets go of my shirt. As soon as the weight of her hand is gone, I miss it.

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