Page 33 of Knox

Knox flicked on an overhead light. I winced, shielding my eyes, which also hurt. Light and being drunk did not go well together.

“I can handle it,” I insisted, sitting up and reaching for him blindly. “It’s nothing I haven’t endured before.”

“Liar.”

I froze. Knox’s voice wasn’t harsh or accusing now. It was quiet. Soft. Hurt. The back of my neck prickled. He knew. The bastard knew my father put me through hell—we had both confessed childhood traumas—and now he guessed that it had only gotten worse with age.

My throat tightened. I tried to dredge up pride and defiance to snap back, but exhaustion had set in. A bone-deep, hollowed-out feeling dragging me down, burning the backs of my eyes.

Knox straightened his jacket. “The bedding is only two days old. I cleaned it out the day of the poker den. There’s no running water, but there’s this thing under here.” He knelt to open a cabinet and haul out a plastic water container. It had a spigot that Knox screwed on. “There. Use it how you want. There’s clothes in that cabinet.” He pointed to the cabinets above the bed. “Just guy clothes. No white pantsuits.”

We locked eyes, and I was ready to lunge one more time and yank him into bed with me, but Knox just gave me a two-finger salute and headed for the door. “Night, spitfire.”

“Where are you sleeping?” I demanded. “This is your bed.”

“Yes,” Knox said with matching sarcasm. “It is. But not when you’re sleeping in it. I’ll crash in the truck.”

“No. Just get in with me, idiot.”

“Nope. Truck sounds better.”

“Stop being petty.”

“Stop being horny.”

Knox was grinning now. Scowling, I grabbed one of the pillows and tossed it. He caught it.

Of course he fucking did.

“Goodnight, Caroline,” he said pointedly, tossing the pillow on the edge of the bed before flicking off the lights and exiting the trailer.

“I hate you,” I called after him.

“No, you don’t!” he called back immediately.

I didn’t bother with water or even getting under the covers. I just yanked the closest pillow under my head and curled in a ball.

I hated him.

But I really, really didn’t.

I didn’t know what scared me more as I lay in the dark quiet—how much I wanted him to stay close to me, or what it would mean if he wanted that, too.

CHAPTER 13

KNOX

I woke feeling like I’d been crammed into a box too small for my six-foot-four body by an unforgiving god as punishment for something.

It wasn’t far off from reality.

The box was my old man’s Ford. The unforgiving god was Caroline Bates.

Raindrops plunked down overhead in a steady rhythm. The forest was dark and dreary. I checked my watch. It was nine in the morning.

“Damn,” I groaned, wishing I could’ve slept the entire day away as I stretched out as much as I could. I was lying across both seats of the cab. My bones creaked and cracked like firecrackers. “I’m too old for this shit,” I muttered to myself, sitting up and struggling to fit my arms back into my jacket that I’d used as a sad excuse for a blanket. “A grown man sleeping in his truck ‘cause he’s being chivalrous to let an entitled princess sleep in the bed. Unbelievable. Why can’t honor be more comfortable?” I squinted at my reflection and declared myself sleep-deprived but ruggedly handsome. I scrubbed at my jaw, the bristles scraping. “Still looks like I took a fucking beating. I would’ve won against that bastard. Can’t bear to think of what he would’ve done to?—”

Knuckles rapped on the driver’s side window.

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