Page 45

“Put on something comfortable, and I’ll make us a picnic basket so I can take you riding with me.”

I swallow.

Hard.

And yeah. I am a total sucker for that idea.

Something about the way he says it—like riding could mean a dozen different things and every one of them ends with me forgetting what sadness feels like—has me nodding before I even realize it.

“Okay,” I whisper.

Because maybe I’ve been tired of running for a long time.

And maybe this is where I stop.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN-ZEKE

“Dude? You cook?” Kian barges into my cabin like he owns the place, strutting through the front door without so much as a knock.

Like he’s got the fucking key.

Which he doesn’t.

I don’t hesitate.

I launch the knife I’m holding straight at his face.

It whistles past his ear and lodges in the doorframe with a satisfying thunk.

He yelps and ducks—barely in time.

“Fuck, man!” he hollers. “I already shaved today, fuck you very much!”

He marches over, yanking the knife from the wall and—seriously?

He wipes it off on my dishtowel like he’s doing me a favor.

“Wash it before you use it again,” he mutters, setting it on the counter like he’s the one being annoyed.

Then he snags a tomato slice from my cutting board.

I snarl, low and dangerous.

A puff of smoke curls from my nostrils before I can stop it.

Kian freezes, the slice halfway to his mouth.

“Okay, so no sharing,” he says, placing it back down slowly, hands up like he’s just negotiated a hostage exchange.

I finish wrapping the food I prepped.

Simple stuff.

Cold fried chicken.

Some pasta salad I remembered Casey saying she liked from last night’s meal.

Fresh tomatoes with basil and an extra virgin olive oil drizzle.