Page 37 of A Captive Situation

“How long was she your best friend?”

I grimaced. “Again,notthat it’s any of your business, but I met her in college. She was my freshman roommate and then we rushed the same sorority together.”

“Since college?”

My throat was suddenly dry, so very dry. I said a little quieter, “Yeah. Since college.”

“You called her your best friend.”

That knot was back, and this time it was a little harder to shove it down. “Ex–best friend. Slip of the tongue.”

He was quiet again for a moment before walking away. “When you can stand, help yourself to a shower. There’s clothes in the closet. Find whatever that’ll fit. Come out when you’re done. I’ll get started on the food.”

I yelled as he left, “Are you going to be cooking up an explanation too?”

He shut the door, and said from the other side, his voice muffled, “Wash up. You stink.”

“Here’s another name for you.” I made a face. “Dick.”

Chapter Thirteen

Sawyer

After showering and finding some clothes to change into, my stomach was rumbling by the time I left the room. I didn’t want to give him any credit; the aromas coming from the kitchen were too much for me to resist. A part of me considered going on a hunger strike, more to just be a pain in the ass than any other reason. I was pissed about all of this. Pissed that we’d been shot at twice. Pissed that he kidnapped me.

Pissed that I ran maybe three miles only to be carried back like I was a giant toddler.

I decided to take a stand that it was three miles, not however long he said. He didn’t know what he was talking about. So yeah.

I waspissed.

That was the only reason I wanted to join him, so I could piss him off. If I was going to be miserable, so was he.

I watched him for a moment when he wasn’t aware of my presence. He was at the stove, his head down as he was staring at his phone, idly stirring whatever was in the pot, and I saw the exhaustion on his face.

Exhaustion and other emotions, ones that made my stomach get all twisty inside as I didn’t know if I wanted to try and decipher them, but it was enough of an unguarded moment for me to push away the immaturity of an adult temper tantrum.

He’d changed into sweats and an old-school vintage varsity Henley.

My mouth watered a little bit, seeing how he looked in that shirt. There was a hockey emblem on it, but I didn’t recognize the team.

My mouth was watering from whatever he was cooking. I cleared my throat. “What’d you make?”

He put his phone away, stuffing it into his back pocket, and glanced over his shoulder. His eyes ran over me, lingering on my bare feet and calves—I’d pulled up the sweats I found so they were just under my knees—before sweeping back to my face. They narrowed, holding on my lips, where I was biting down on my bottom one, then rose and held my gaze. Hunger flared in him, hot and primal for a moment.

He was attracted to me.

My own arousal flared, which pissed me off all over again.

He didn’t deserve that. Whatever the earlier connection had been between us, he killed that. It was destroyed.

It should’ve been gone.

I clamped down on the throb that was starting between my legs. Not today, you traitorous pussy.

I was definitely ignoring my own body’s reaction, and half glared at him. “That is food, right?”

He blinked again, some of the hunger banking. “I made soup. If you don’t like soup, tough shit.” He glared back, some of his heat morphing into hostility. He gestured to a cupboard. “There’s bowls up there. Crackers.”

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