Page 39 of The Unlikely Pair
But since we crashed, I’ve been scrambling to keep a coherent thought in my brain. The fact that Harry Matheson is showing me up with his unflappability in a crisis sits like a hard nut inside my stomach.
“Yes, I did do some thinking last night,” Harry replies, oblivious to my internal turmoil. “And I figure the only way we’re going to escape this situation is to find our own way out.”
On that positive note, we lapse into silence again.
The minutes slip into monotonous dreariness. The early sunshine fades as clouds take over the sky. I keep sending nervous glances to the gathering clouds because rain will definitely not enhance this experience.
Hunger continues to gnaw on my stomach, but I don’t say anything to Harry.
We reach a small stream, and Harry assesses the situation with a critical eye. “I believe the most efficient way to cross would be to jump.”
I eye the distance skeptically. “Are you sure? It looks quite wide.”
Harry doesn’t waste any time channeling his inner Olympian and leaps across it in a single bound.
But when I attempt, it becomes quickly apparent I lack Harry’s gazelle-like grace. I only manage to get one foot onthe opposite bank before I start pinwheeling my arms like a demented windmill, my balance deserting me entirely.
Just as I’m preparing to take an impromptu bath, a strong hand grabs my arm, yanking me forward. I slam into something solid and warm, and suddenly, I’m tangled up with Harry bloody Matheson, both of us tumbling onto the mossy ground in a graceless heap.
For a moment, we lie there, my body draped over his like a human blanket, every inch pressed against him. I lift my head and find myself nose-to-nose with Harry, close enough to count every stupidly long eyelash framing those bright-blue eyes.
Harry stares back at me. For a split second, something hot and hungry flares in his gaze, making my breath catch.
But then he’s shoving me off him, scrambling to his feet like he’s been scalded.
I guess when he doesn’t need my warmth, Harry doesn’t want me touching him.
He avoids my gaze, dusting off his trousers with quick, jerky movements.
“Well, that was certainly an inelegant way to cross a stream,” he says.
“I apologize. We can’t all be as naturally gifted at leaping around the forest as you are, Harry. Some of us are just mere mortals,” I say as I climb to my feet slowly, removing a few errant pine needles clinging to my jacket.
He lifts his gaze to mine, and our eyes catch on each other for a second before he turns and stalks off through the forest.
I stumble after him, my mind churning.
What the hell was that?
Did I imagine the flare of heat in his eyes? Am I starting to completely lose my mind?
There’s no way Harry Matheson just looked at me like he wanted to devour me. Unless perhaps he’s reached that point ofextreme hunger where he’s evaluating cannibalism as an option. Maybe that look just meant he’s mentally seasoning me with wild herbs.
Anyway, I have more important things to worry about right now.
Like surviving.
The cold seeps through my clothes, a constant reminder of how precarious our situation is. Every step could be bringing us closer to rescue or deeper into danger. The forest’s silence is broken only by our stumbling steps and the occasional unidentifiable animal sound.
Harry and I follow the stream to where it meets a larger, more swiftly flowing river. Harry contemplates the river, his face evaluating.
“I don’t think even your long legs are leaping that,” I say.
He gives me a withering look in reply. But I’m determined to show he’s not the only one who can think strategically.
“Maybe we should attempt to cross it? That will get us further away from our pursuers,” I suggest.
“But we’ll get wet, and it will be virtually impossible to get dry today without lighting a fire.”
