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“There’s a sofa.”
“It’s wet,” he reminds me.
Oh. Right. Embarrassment floods me at the recent memory of being pulled from the water.
“I can swim, you know.”
“Not well enough. Next time, wear a life jacket.”
“I tried it,” I say. “It’s uncomfortable around my chest.”
He says nothing but takes one of the chopped logs at his feet and tosses it into the flames rather too forcefully. Sparks explode.
His stomach rumbles.
The coals at the base of the fire look hot enough for cooking, with the arrangement of the logs creating a perfect hole for smoking some campfire meat. That’ll taste way better than on the stove, as I’d initially planned. I may not be outdoorsy, but there was that week when some other foster kids and I ran away and hid out at an abandoned trailer in the woods. We survived on campfire toast and the cheapest frankfurters we could find.
“I’ll be right back, Sigurd. Don’t go anywhere.”
He huffs out a sharp, ironic laugh.
Did I amuse the prince?
I practically skip like a schoolgirl all the way back to the kitchen.
6
Sigurd
I don’t know what came over me.
A few moments ago, I was determined to pay her handsomely to leave and bribe her with a bigger, better vacation rental if she promised to keep my secret.
I was fully prepared to give Stasi anything she asked.
But then I’d found her bra and decided it would be a good idea to wash and dry it for her. While she was still in the bathroom, instinct took over. It went like this: She’ll be wet and hungry, so I should build a fire for our dinner, and we can hash out a verbal agreement. Then the sun began to set, and I knew I would not have it in me to throw her out, nor could I leave her alone out here in good conscience.
The place is secluded. There are wild animals, snakes, ticks—who knows what else out here.
She can’t be left alone in the daytime either, not when she can’t swim.
I am aware that a woman can vacation alone.
Stasi is a capable, if slightly scattered, woman. But my preternatural self will not leave. Even if I had it in me, there’s no way I could walk away from her.
Soon, Stasi returns with campfire sticks tucked under one arm and her hands carrying a tray laden with a large spiral of kielbasa, cheese, bread, crackers, and pickles.
My empty stomach roars at the sight of all this food. And my body aches at the presence of the woman carrying the tray.
Carrying the tray…
Something pricks at my memory.
Wild, red hair, large breasts, dancing eyes, pretty lips. The woman at the pub where I had found Etienne…the server who smiled at me and said that my brother and I were no trouble despite having made a public spectacle…
I tipped the server for her troubles. My brother had said something inappropriate, as he always does.
The server with the sultry slow blink, clutching her drink tray to her chest…I remember now.
