Page 66 of The Queen's Box

The woods grew wilder and stranger. The canopy of branches hung low, and the roots rose high. The trail, if you could call it that, took them single file along a ravine choked with witch hazeland redbud. Willow’s legs were stiff, her shoulders tight, and her headache throbbed in time with her pulse.

They reached a narrowing in the gorge, where the rocks leaned toward each other like old men whispering secrets. Cole hopped down lightly, then turned and held out a hand to her. She ignored him and scrambled down the rocks on her own, only to tumble backward against a bristling shrub. A thorn pierced straight through the worn denim of her jeans, and she yelped.

Cole looked on as if she’d staged the entire event for his entertainment. When a horde of fire ants streamed out from beneath the shrub, she yelped again and leaped quickly out of their path.

“You know, if you’d accepted my help...” he said.

She scowled, her dignity hanging by a thread. “I don’t need your help,” she snapped, even as a particularly wicked barb throbbed under the curve of her ass.

Cole laughed and walked on.

Willow followed, wincing as the thorn pressed deeper. She fumbled at it, but it remained lodged in her flesh.

“Okay, actually, I do need your help,” she said after bearing the pain for ten more seconds.

Cole turned around. “Oh?” He was enjoying this. Immensely.

“There’s a thorn,” she said. “In my...” She huffed and turned to show him. “Just—don’t make it weird.”

“Me? Never.” He crouched, and she felt the heat of his gaze. “Permission to touch the royal backside?”

“Just do it.”

He plucked the thorn free.

“Ow!” Willow cried, rubbing the sore spot.

Cole regarded the thorn in his cupped palms. “I’ll treasure this always.”

She batted it out of his hand.

They made camp near a riverbed, Cole moving efficiently and doing mountain-man things that resulted in a crackling fire and a bench made from an old stump turned sideways. Dinner was cold spaghetti, which Cole called “spagbol.” They scooped it from the can with their fingers.

The fire popped. The dancing flames were mesmerizing.

“Do you feel it?” Cole asked.

“Feel what?”

“The peace in the air,” he said. At her blank look, he shrugged. “This place remembers what towns like Hemridge have forgotten. This silence, this stillness... it’s what I long for the most, sometimes.”

“Do you know what I long for?” Willow asked. “A pillow. A nice soft feather pillow.” She turned to Cole, hopeful. “Did you pack any pillows by chance?”

“Sorry, but no.” He arched his brows. “I can think of other ways to make you more comfortable if you’d like.”

“Dude,” she said, giving him a look.

“Worth a try.” He adopted such a hangdog look that Willow’s lips twitched despite herself. A grin broke across Cole’s face, and Willow reached over to swat him.

He caught her wrist before she could pull away. Their eyes met, and the firelight picked out the edge of his jaw and the hollow of his throat.

Abruptly, Willow stood up. “It’s late. I’m going to try to get some sleep.”

Cole settled back on the stump, his weight on his forearms. “Sweet dreams, princess.”

~

By the time they reached World’s End, Willow’s eyes were gritty and her vision blurred at the edges. They’d walked the last two hours on foot, barely managing to keep track of a goat path that kept vanishing into fog.

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