Finding Him (Covet 2)

We had at least a day or two before the roads would be clear, maybe more.

I wasn’t a doctor by any means, but even I knew that someone needed to check out Keaton’s hands before she lost fingers—if it was even that bad, and I prayed it wasn’t.

I’d acted fast.

She was alive.

I just had to remind myself of that.

I wouldn’t survive another death on my hands.

More blood.

I reached for the pancake without thinking, burning two of my fingers before grabbing the spatula and tossing it onto the plate. I cursed and gave my hand a shake.

“Are you okay?” came a groggy voice from the living room.

She just had to have a sexy voice when all I needed was for her to go back to her annoying self.

“Almost lost a fight with a hot pancake, but other than that, good to go,” I said dryly as I crossed the distance between us and held out the plate to her.

Keaton’s eyes flashed with excitement as she stood and reached for the plate.

A few things happened at once.

I stumbled in an effort to grab the blanket that was already falling from her body, the pancake wobbled then went flying, and the plate unfortunately crashed to the floor.

My hands caught the blanket at her waist just before it dipped below her hips, and I held it there, like a dumbass, with pancake and glass at my feet.

“Sorry.” Her voice was small as she stared at me, and my hands refused to let go of the fur as they very tightly pulled it back around her shoulders and held it there. “My stomach was making all decisions for me.”

“You won’t hear me complaining,” I said honestly. “Though I figure if I look one more time without your permission you’re going to go grab that knife and figure out a way to hold it at my throat, frostbite be damned. Am I right?”

Her smile was wide, infectious. “What is it with you and being petrified of knives?”

“Not petrified,” I mused. “Just . . . careful when women filled with rage point them at me.”

“You were rude.”

“So were you.”

She huffed.

I stood my ground.

And then she sighed, her shoulders relaxed. “Fine, I’m calling a truce.”

“Pancake truce,” I added. “We shake over the broken plate and food and start over, how’s that sound?”

Her eyes darted from mine to my mouth, then back again. “It’s been a while since I’ve had a fresh start.”

“Not for me, I had a coma . . . yay . . .” I said with all the dry humor in the world as I held her gaze.

Keaton bit down on her lip and smiled. “A pancake truce it is.”

“What? No insult about my brain injury?”

“Your brain seems to be working just as good as your reflexes.” She winked. “And why would I insult the living when it’s a direct insult to those who are dead?”

I sobered and looked away. “Good point.”

“So . . .” She cleared her throat. “Why don’t I get changed, clean up the mess, and we can talk about what this truce entails, you know, since we’re stuck here for the unforeseeable future.”

I had a vision then.

Maybe it was a flash.

Or just wishful thinking.

I could stay.

With her.

In my family’s cabin.

And shut out the rest of the world.

It was insanity.

And yet, it was tempting. Shutting the world away, pretending the pain didn’t exist, and being normal.

For once in my life.

Hell, I gathered firewood yesterday, and today I was making pancakes. If Bridge knew what I was doing he would have called the paramedics or worse, asked if I was on drugs.

I smiled. And then I hesitated, not wanting this moment to be broken, whatever the truce meant, we seemed to do better when both of us dropped our guards. Sadly that’s something that people like her and me never did.

Unless we were alone.

Forced vulnerability was like staring down hell and then walking right through the flames.

“Deal,” I found myself saying. “Go change, I’ll clean up the mess.”

She sidestepped me and slowly wobbled down the hall to the master suite, where she’d deposited all her stuff. Last night I was ready to toss her suitcase out the door.

This morning I was ready to hide it.

Yeah, I was finally losing it.

My mind.

I knelt down and grabbed the two pieces of broken plate and the still-hot pancake and threw it all in the trash, then went back to the stove and attempted a second pancake.

Apparently I was concentrating too hard because I didn’t hear her come back into the kitchen.

“I think I need help,” came a grumble from behind me, causing me to jump a foot and spill batter all over the counter. “Is that your thing? Breaking things? Spilling? I’m not complaining, I mean at least it’s a flaw. I’ve been looking for one, you know, other than your stellar personality, for the last few hours . . .”