Page 36 of The Pretenders of Copper County
I almost whimpered.Me.I was the unrepentant shithead.
I’d just managed to shake off the dust of the Hollow, so of-fucking-course Oak was sending me to another freaking small town.
“What exactly do I have to do to fix up this campground?”
“Dunno exactly. Watt will tell you. Mow lawns, I guess? Fix cabins. Paint some stuff. Nail some stuff. Screw some stuff.” Oak snorted. “Not your protectee, though, ’cause you’re not gonna makethatmistake again. No, sir. Not even if he’s cute and funny and kind. Not even if he is the first protectee whose tonsils you’ve ever examinedorally.”
“You’re hilarious,” I said blandly. “Thank you so much.”
But when I thought about it, being a campground caretaker wouldn’t be so bad. It was private, Oak had said, which meant no chance for Chris to find himself a weed-dealing bestie or a posse of bikers’ old ladies who needed a drinking buddy. Chris could relax and do… whatever charcuterie experts did on vacation while I did some light physical labor. Orchard and small town aside, it really was pretty ideal.
“Seriously, Oak, thank you so much,” I repeated, this time meaning it.
“I’m always looking out for you, Sunday,” he saidgleefully. “You remember that, okay? Always. Looking. Out. For. You.”
“Sure,” I agreed, wondering why he sounded so damn happy. “I’ll be in touch.”
“Do that. And when you’re ready to ditch the Division and come work with me in the private security business, you just let me know.”
“Never gonna happen,” I shot back, but Oak had already disconnected. A moment later, a text came through with Watt Bartlett’s address and contact info. Just that easy.
But when I went back inside the shabby motel room, my eyes immediately traced Chris’s sleeping form, curled in a ball under the covers right on the edge of the bed. He’d cleared away my ice packs and rifled through my bag, probably for another pair of pants.
Remembering why he’d needed them made my gut clench.
Silently, I crossed to him and slid his glasses off his face before setting them gently on the nightstand.
What’s your story,Chris Winowski?I wondered, tightening my hands into fists to keep my fingers from running through his hair.And what the hell are you doing to me?
Whatever it was, I decided as I laid down carefully on top of the covers beside him, it wasn’t going to be nearly as easy and straightforward as I’d imagined my redemption job would be.
It wasn’t until the next day that I realized exactly how complicated things were going to get.
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHRIS
The following morning,I was not feeling my best.
It turned out there was a price to pay for freedom, especially beer-based freedom, and that price was steep.
“Just a little further now!” Watt Bartlett called cheerfully over his shoulder. “The Wrigleys’ land starts at that gate—” He lifted one big paw and pointed toward a fence that seemed to be miles away. “—and the campground itself is just through those trees—” The paw lifted toward the forest all the way on the horizon. “—so not too far.”
“Not far at all,” I echoed. I pushed sweat-damp hair out of my face, ignored my rolling stomach, and dredged up a weak smile for the man—a cousin of a friend of his, Reed had said, though Watt was tall and broad, bearded and flanneled enough to have been a missing Sunday brother. “I just love walking. I can walk for miles and miles.”
Reed, who walked beside me—looking fresh as a daisy and disgustingly handsome despite being bruised and unshaven and loaded down with all our baggage, including a soft cooler we’d bought at the grocery store in town andsome me-sized clothes I’d purchased at a nearby thrift store—shot me a look that called me a liar.
It wasn’t a lie, though. Not exactly. Ididlove walking.
I just maybe loved it a little less when I was wearing my big sweater and another pair of borrowed too-big pants, and the autumn day was summer hot, and I was scrambling to keep up with two men forged in the same giant mold, which meant taking two running steps for every one of their long strides, while my stomach begged me to leave it behind and carry on without it. I knew my cheeks were bright red, and the little rivulets of sweat rolling down my back beneath the sweater werenotmy favorite-ever sensation.
I wasn’t going to complain, though. Uncle Danny always said nobody liked a complainer.
And I was definitely not going to complain where Reed could hear me and think I needed him to, I don’t know, pick me up and carry me or whatever.
I lifted my chin stubbornly and shot him a look right back, but Reed merely grunted and said nothing.
Nothing, I was quickly learning, often accompanied by a grumpy grunt, was one of Reed’s very favorite thingstosay, along with “It’s no big deal, Chris,” and “I’ll keep you safe, Chris,” and “Listen, Chris…” the latter of which actually translated to “Do as I say.”
