Page 47 of The Pretenders of Copper County
The day before, I’d set out to replace a few shingles on the east-facing side of the cabin. Only once I’d gotten up there and started removing the damaged spots I’d noticed just how much rot was hiding beneath the surface. I’d ended up stripping everything so I could replace the plywood underlay, and today,I needed to finish the job.
Unlike certain people, I wasnotskilled in roof repair, so I’d have to concentrate—which was a good thing because for once I’d be too distracted to think about Chris at all.
Or so I thought.
But after I’d crawled off the ladder and begun laying the shingles, soaking in the hot sunshine, the wail of the loons, and the faint, rhythmic sound of Chris’s sander in the distance, I remembered the look on Chris’s face earlier. It wasn’t quite sad, but definitely not happy. Thoughtful, kind of. Wistful, maybe?
Jesus Christ.
Wistful, Reed?Really?I’d be spouting poetry next.
The last time I’d been so consumed with someone that I’d spent actual minutes of my life thinking about their expressions and wondering at their moods was… never. Literally never. I was living in upside-down land. But I couldn’t think of a way to get things back on track short of… well, simply giving in and fucking him.
If I did give in—if the next time I woke up with his body in my arms, his clean vanilla scent in my nose, and his sleepy brown eyes blinking up at me, I simply rolledintohim instead of away, pressed my lips to his, kissed my way down his body, took him in my mouth, fingered him until he made those hot little whimpers he’d made the other night, and then sank inside him—then his spell over me would be broken. One hundred percent definitely. No matter how great the sex was, new experiences were my catnip—one reason why my career at the Division was so fulfilling—and once this thing with Chris wasn’t new anymore, it wouldn’t feel so tempting. So necessary.
So fucking inevitable.
Afterward, Chris would go back to being my protectee, and I’d be able to focus on something besides my needy dickfor a change. I’d quit allowing the Division to blow off my many requests for status updates and copies of Dante’s file because I wouldn’t be dreading the moment Chris realized the truth and his gut-punch eyes filled with tears. I’d stop growling like a jealous caveman—a ridiculously embarrassing turn of events I’d never experienced before and hoped to never experience again—whenever Chris struck up a conversation with yet another buff, friendly dude in town. I’d stop being so annoyed that Oak’s reply to my “WTF? Why’d you tell Watt we were MARRIED?” text had been a string of laugh-cry emojis and a very misguided “I have a feeling you’ll thank me later, bro.” I’d stop being so agitated all the damn time, and maybe Chris would stop being so unhappy. In a way, I’d actually be able to protect Chris betterif we?—
I sat back on my heels. Holy shit. Was I really considering this? Was I high? Was I dehydrated? What thehellwas in those shingle fumes that was making this seem like a plausible idea?
You will not have sex with your protectee, I reminded myself firmly. Because the potential damage to my career wasn’t the only risk.
Chris had said something the other day about our kiss at the motel being his first. If that was true… Well, for one thing, it meant the man was a kissing prodigy because that had been a hell of a kiss. For another, though, it meant he probably wasn’t looking to me for a quick, enjoyable fuck. More than likely, he’d deluded himself into thinking this whole situation was romantic or something—a common and normal reaction when you were in danger and dependent on someone to protect you, and one of the reasons the Division forbade agents from these sorts of entanglements.
Chris really didn’t wantme, Reed Sunday—how couldhe when he didn’t know me? He wanted someone to cling to because the rest of his life was in upheaval.
But I was not that person.
I lifted the hem of my T-shirt to wipe the sweat from my eyes and decided I needed a cold drink. Dehydration still wasn’t off the table, and if I was feeling it, Chris could be, too.
Crawling over to the ladder, I realized I couldn’t hear the sound of Chris’s sander. I couldn’t say how long it had been since I’d heard it either, which wasn’t good. If I couldn’t keep my eyes on him at all times, I at least needed to keep my ears on him. Odds were, he’d started replacing the drywall on the ceiling and hadn’t bothered to come and get me.
I scowled as I stowed my tools in the five-gallon bucket Watt had provided and mopped my sticky hands with a rag. I had never met anyone who hated accepting help as much as Chris did. He was too used to working alone. Too driven to prove how capable he was.
And hewascapable. I could admit that. The other morning, he’d riffled around Watt’s tool shed and found everything we needed. At the hardware store, he’d known precisely what sorts of fasteners to get for every job. And fuck knew the man could assemble a meal fit for a party from just a few slices of cheese and a melon. But knowing how to do things didn’t mean he should be climbing tall ladders and using circular saws and lifting heavy drywall over his head alone.
He was small. Breakable. Important. Precious.
Fuck.
Maybe Chris wasn’t the only deluded one.
I stalked through the trees toward Cabin 3, my boots sinking into the thick carpet of pine needles andreleasing a spicy scent that made me think of Vermont and my siblings. For the first time in a long time, I wished I could call one of them, or maybeallof them, and get their advice on this crazy fucking situation. I imagined Porter would make a ridiculous joke at my expense, and Emma would make me a to-do list. Knox would make a sarcastic comment that turned out to be surprisingly insightful. Webb would be calm and no-nonsense, dispensing advice like trick-or-treat candy, and Hawk would make drama out of the smallest details and probably be able to tell precisely what Chris was thinking.
But what would I even say if I called them? How could I get their help without coming clean about everything else?
Maybe, like Chris, I was just used to working alone.
When I got closer to Cabin 3, I noticed immediately that the place was too quiet. Chris had a tendency to hum when he was working, but there wasn’t a single off-key note of Taylor Swift to be heard. The peeling trim around the windows and doors was neatly scraped and sanded smooth, just waiting for a fresh coat of paint after our next trip to the hardware store, and Chris’s tools had been tidied away, but he hadn’t touched the ceiling or anything else inside the cabin.
This should have been a relief. Instead, I thought about Chris’s earlier wistful expression, and my stomach twisted guiltily. I didn’t want him to feel bad or incompetent, I just wanted him to be safe. He had to understand?—
Chris’s panicked cry rent the air, followed by a loudsplash, and I took off down the path to the lake at a run. Had he fallen in? Had someone found us?
“Oh my goodness! That was amazing!” Chris shouted a second later. “Ten out of ten.”
“Eight out of ten!” a young female voice called. “You need to point your toes, Derry.”
