That I wasn’t mourning a mother I didn’t get enough time with, or a life that I no longer recognized.
I wished it was just us.
In that cabin.
Perfect strangers.
Acting on something that felt a hell of a lot better than grief ever did.
Slowly, I lifted the bra over her head and helped her roll it down her body until it was tight against her skin, and then I grabbed the T-shirt from her hands and did the same thing.
Neither of us moved.
Neither of us spoke.
The air felt thick with something that neither of us acknowledged out loud.
I could hear her soft exhale as she slowly turned and faced me. “I won’t make fun of you again, but you can’t . . .” Her face was pale. “You can’t touch me, promise me you won’t touch me and we’ll be civil . . .”
I narrowed my eyes. “Wrong word.”
“Pardon?”
I tucked her hair behind her ear. “You said touch, what you meant was promise you won’t tempt me. Don’t worry, princess, those days ended the minute I woke up from that coma.”
“What do you mean?” Her eyes rested on my mouth then blinked back up at me.
I grinned. “I’m taking a break from women, which of course means you have my scout’s honor I won’t seduce you.”
She sighed. “Yeah. Good. Great. We should eat.” She hurried into the kitchen and grabbed a plate.
“Though . . . offer’s on the table, I’ve never had anyone try seducing me, so fair warning, I wouldn’t say no.”
The plate shook in her hands as she set it down. “That’s not funny.”
“I’m not laughing.” I pulled out a chair. “Now, let’s talk about your hands and the book that you clearly can’t write.”
When she turned, tears glistened in her eyes. “I’m screwed.”
“Lucky for you”—yup, insane, I’d gone insane—“I type fast.”
“What?”
“I’ll write it.”
And in that moment I knew I would write this stranger’s ending, and I would help her find closure.
Even though I knew I never would.
Maybe it was my penance.
Maybe it was my mom sending me one last way to make up for my mistakes.
But I knew, clear as day. My job was to help her.
And maybe, just maybe, by doing that, I would earn a bit of myself back. If I stopped her hurt—maybe I’d stop bleeding.
Chapter Eleven
KEATON
“You don’t know me,” I said dumbly. “Why would you help?”
“Penance for my sins.” He didn’t smile, just stared at me like his idea wasn’t completely crazy. Not only would it mean I would have to actually relive the story and tell it to him, but he’d be writing down my every personal failure and triumph over the last year and a half.
Things I hadn’t even told my parents. My mom was my best friend and I hadn’t even confessed all of the details to her. I didn’t have any close friends because too many people had tried to become my friend because of who I was, and I knew they would turn on me the minute I was no longer useful. I didn’t let people get close to me for a reason; I was afraid to trust them with things that mattered.
And there were things, so many things.
Things I hadn’t even admitted to myself.
And he would be typing them.
With his hands.
I sat at the table without my pancake as tears filled my eyes. “I could always get some voice software once I’m back in the city.” I was bluffing, the last thing I wanted to do was say everything out loud. I had been told that writing would be cathartic.
Saying it felt more real than writing it.
And I was already struggling with writing.
“No, you won’t,” he said smoothly, leaning his muscled forearms against the table as his dark hair glistened. How did he get it to look so healthy? Thick? And why was I focusing on his hair at a time like this! “Besides, if you haven’t noticed, we’re stuck here until help comes or until I’m able to call someone, my cell still isn’t working, and let’s not forget the angry elk that tried to take your life last night.”
I felt sick to my stomach as I tried to suck in more air. “You’re right, I just . . . I don’t know if I can do it. Writing it was hard enough.”
He frowned. “Well, how much do you have?”
I laughed because it was so ridiculous. “Oh, you know . . . the title.”
“Progress.” He winked, was he teasing me? His smile was bright and perfect as he stared at me across the table. “Care to share what it is?”
“It’s a working title,” I clarified.
“Now we aren’t even sure we have a title?”
“Me, not we, there is no we.”
“There is now.” There was that damn sexy smile again. Had he been born with it or was it practiced in front of a mirror seventy times before he went into board meetings? “Why are you staring at me like that?”