Page 43

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he says yet he still dismounts his own horse, he still follows in my footsteps as I beeline towards the trailer. “Lottie, slow down.”

If anything, I speed up.

“Hello?” I call out, the three rusty steps leading to a metal front door creaking ominously as I scale them. When I rap my knuckles against the door, it gives way with a groan, and while I don’t hesitate to step across the threshold, my partner-in-crime isn’t quite as brazen.

Hooking a finger beneath the waistband of my jeans, he tries to pull me back. “You can’t just go in.”

“Why not?” I smirk at him over my shoulder, head cocked challengingly. “It’s my land.”

Finn hisses my name, but I’m already inside—and dragging him with me considering he refuses to let me go.

Compared to the landscape surrounding it, this place is…

uninspiring. Curtains pulled across every window like whoever lives here is afraid of a little sunshine, a stack of dirty bowls in the sink, a god-awful stench of dirty socks that makes my nose scrunch.

Not a person in sight, no photos, nothing vaguely identifying in the slightest.

Kind of disappointed, I sigh. “Huh.”

Finn tugs my jeans firmly. “Can we get out of here now?”

“Jeez, cowboy. Who knew you were such a—”

The roar of an engine abruptly cuts me off. A close engine. Close enough to cause a startled whinny that makes my gut sink and leaves me completely unsurprised when I glance out the window to find my horses disappearing into the distance.

That, though, is not the root of my emphatic, “Oh, fuck .”

“What?”

I blink a couple of times, like that might erase the image of the lifted, bright green truck that screams small dick energy hurtling our way.

When it doesn’t, I swear again and stumble back from the window and right into Finn, my back slamming into his chest while steadying hands land on my hips. “It’s the Webers.”

A hot, huffed exhale brushes the top of my head. “Stay here. I’ll handle this.”

Not a fucking chance.

Locking an iron-grip around his wrist, I yank Finn away from the door.

Despite his protests, I yank again, and again and again until I reach a different door, one I’m hoping leads to a decent-sized closet.

When I open it and find just that—although, decent is a bit of a stretch—I hastily shove Finn inside, ignoring his baffled exclamation as I throw myself in too and shut us in.

Not a single inch of space separates us.

Not a single particle of space separates us.

Literally nothing. Every time he breathes, I feel it.

When he asks what we’re doing, I feel the vibration in my own chest as clearly as I do in his, and the sensation makes me shift except I can’t shift, there’s no goddamn room.

Fists balled at my sides—did I mention his hands are once again firmly planted on my hips?—I clear my throat. “Hiding.”

“Not that I’m complaining.” Finn dips his head to whisper against my temple, unknowingly depriving himself of the flush that stains my cheeks as I, against my own will, take his words a little more seriously than intended. “But why?”

“Let’s just say you were really, really wrong when you assumed I was friends with the Webers.”

“What does that mean?”

“Just that I’d rather not be caught snooping around the trailer of a couple of men who’re known for their gun collection and who also happen to hate me.”

Finn is silent for a second. And then he hisses and growls and practically shrieks all in one sentence, “You think they would shoot you?”

“Oh, repeatedly.” I have no doubt about that. Probably not, like, fatally or anything. Maybe just in my general direction—it wouldn’t be the first time they’ve used that maniacal scare tactic on a trespasser, and I’m not just any ol’ trespasser, am I?

Finn shifts impossibly closer, gripping me like I’m liable to float away at any moment. “What the fuck, Lottie?”

What the fuck, indeed. What the fuck am I supposed to say? To tell him? The truth? Jesus, I’d rather take the bullet—it would probably hurt less than the nauseating shame that seizes my gut when I think about regaling Finn with the tale of my little tryst with the eldest Weber.

Better he think I’m being dramatic. Better he think I’m lying and just wanted to reenact my teenagedom with a bout of seven minutes in heaven. Better literally any other scenario than me spilling the beans on what kicked off a very steep downfall. “Fuck me, this was so dumb.”

“Not gonna argue with you there.”

I cut Finn a glare.

“Relax, princess.” One hand shifts to my lower back, drumming a hypnotic rhythm. “They’re not gonna hurt you, okay?”

“Not without me hurting them first.”

Fingers dig into me, pulling all of my focus. Harsher, firmer , he repeats, “They’re not gonna hurt you.”

I swallow. “Okay.”

Finn nods, sharp and satisfied. His hand slips lower again, partially dipping beneath the waistband of my jeans like he needs some skin-to-skin contact and only the curve of my fucking ass will do. At least when my breath catches, I can blame it on the trailer’s front door opening at the same time.

Instinctively, I press my face against Finn’s chest—muffling the sound of my erratic breathing, I tell myself. The same way I tell myself it’s just instinct that has Finn stroking my hair with long, smooth movements.

It would be nice, I think, if stomping footsteps didn’t have us both stiffening, didn’t remind me of the shitty situation I’ve gotten us into.

“I’m telling you, man,” Clint fucking Weber’s voice bleeds through the thin closet door, so startlingly close it makes me jolt. “Those horses looked saddled.”

“You’re paranoid,” someone else replies—Carl. Fuck my life. Of course, it had to be both of them. “No one comes out here. Now, would you hurry the fuck up?”

Yes, I silently agree as my palms find their way to Finn’s chest, fisting the soft material of his t-shirt. Hurry up. Get out.

In a miraculous turn of events, the universe grants me a rare kindness.

The brothers don’t linger for very long, the sound of their retreat putting a miraculous end to my brewing heart attack.

As the front door slams shut, I exhale loudly, gently banging my forehead against the clammy throat it’s nestled against. “Close call, hey?”

The man flush against me hums.

When I tilt my head back, I’m not greeted by the same relieved expression I’m sure I wear. No, I find furrowed brows. Teeth buried in a full bottom lip. Eyes scrunched shut that abruptly open when they sense my gaze, flashing darkened irises and blown pupils.

If I thought my heart was hammering before, it’s nothing compared to how it suddenly picks up the pace. Beneath my palms, another heart does the same—a pair of lungs too. “You’re breathing really fast.”

Finn’s throat bobs. “Uh-huh.”

I swallow just as thickly. “Scared?”

“No, baby. I’m not scared.”

I am. That’s why my heart rate has skyrocketed. Fear of the Webers, that’s all it is. That’s what I want it to be. What I need it to be. Any alternative, I don’t think I could handle—I don’t think I want.

Lie.

Lie, lie, lie.

I’m on the tip of my toes, for some reason. I rose without realizing, without meaning to, without considering the consequences of bringing myself as close to eye-level with Finn as I can get without a fucking step stool, without Finn meeting me halfway.

Which he doesn’t do. He stays perfectly still. Like he is scared after all, scared to move, scared of me .

I, on the other hand, am not quite as immobile. I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t tell my hands to rise, but they do. I’ve never been struck with the urge to caress a man’s face before, to trace the edge of a sharp jawline with the pad of my thumb, but here I am, marvelling at smooth, soft skin.

What am I doing. What am I doing.

What is he doing? Why isn’t he moving?

Why is he moving, I think in the next second, when his head suddenly dips.

Out of nowhere, panic slams into me. Knocks me back a step. Makes me blurt, “We should get out of here.”

Finn freezes.

Blinking rapidly, he clears his throat as he straightens.

“Yeah.” He shakes his head again, a smaller movement, like the twitch of someone trying to shake something off. “Right.”

Slowly, he shoulders the door open, peeking his head out to check we’re really alone before stepping out and gesturing for me to follow.

And as I follow him out of the closet, I can’t help but feel like I left something behind.