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“This conversation is about to be a trigger if we don’t change the subject,” she muttered under her breath. She didn’t often speak of her anxiety—she lived an active, normal life in spite of it. But she did need her meds in case of flare-ups. And she definitely needed it for what she recognized was going to be a very challenging few days, possibly weeks, in this man’s company.
“Look, it doesn’t matter what triggers the anxiety. With my meds I can keep it at bay.”
She could almost feel the air from his loud, exasperated sigh through the door.
The lock turned in the door and it swung outward before she had a chance to react. Two seconds later, she was staring up at the tall, brooding, bearded Trystan Abbott, who was glowering down at her huddled form on the floor.
She wasn’t sure—because of the bushy beard—but she was almost certain his lips thinned at the sight of her.
“You’re a weird fucking chick,” he said almost to himself, before turning away from her to haul her big, bright, pink hard-shelled suitcase into the room. He lifted it clear over her head and dropped it on the floor by the kitchen counter.
Iris scrambled to her feet and stared at the open door, poised for flight, before his harsh voice stopped her in her tracks.
“You can run, sure, but you’ll find yourself out in the storm again, with no way back to the nearest town. And rest assured, once you’re out there, you won’t be allowed back in here. So, what’s it to be? You can make a run for it—and believe me, that’s my personal favorite option—and wander around, in the rain and howling wind, with hundred-year-old trees being torn up all around you, flash floods, and mudslides, until maybe you make it to town alive. Or stay here in this room and out of my fucking way until the police can finally reach us and arrest your ass.”
“If I could just get a tow truck for my car.”
He sighed dramatically.
“Jesus Christ, you’re a little slow on the uptake, aren’t you? No truck can get here, the road is gone. For that matter, so’s your car. A tree totaled it during the night.”
“What?” Iris felt the blood drain from her head at that bit of news.
“Your rental… it’s toast. Luckily, just the roof and hood, which meant I could get into the trunk to retrieve this pink monstrosity.” He indicated toward her suitcase. But Iris was too preoccupied to take offense at the slight against her beloved neon pink luggage.
“I was going to stay in the car last night, but thought I’d take my chances and walk here instead,” she said, mostly speaking to herself.
“Well then, I guess you cheated death four times last night. First the river, then the car crushing and then the big bad wolf.”
That diverted her train of thought enough to raise her eyes to his pitiless face.
“What was the fourth time?”
His eyes were shards of silver ice and his lips were pressed into a thin line before he said, voice quiet and intense, “Me, sugarplum… The last woman who thought she could manipulate me died, lady. So don’t fuck with me.”
What?
Was he referring to Trish Nesbitt? Iris had meant to ask him about Ms. Nesbitt’s death during the interview. It had been an accident. Why would he imply that he’d had something to do with that?
“You mean Ms. Nesbitt? But that was an accident. Why?—”
“No.” That was it, just a single, implacable word. And it effectively shut her up.
“There will be no questions,” he continued after a long pause. “No answers. No fucking interview. You will stay in this room. We will not speak. And when the time comes, you’re to face criminal charges. That’s it. End of.”
He stalked to the door, all big, bristling male, and Iris noticed for the first time that he was wearing a pair of faded jeans paired with a red and black plaid flannel shirt.
She felt a nervous giggle rise up in her throat and clapped a hand over her mouth to suppress it. Too late. A soft, merry little chortle escaped, and he whirled around to pin her with a glare.
“What the fuck is so funny?”
She pressed her lips together and dropped her hand before shaking her head.
“N-nothing.” But the word emerged on another traitorous burble of laughter. God, he looked pissed off. And Iris could have cursed her irreverent sense of humor for choosing this time to surface.
“It’s just the hair”—Oh God, Iris, she begged herself. Shut up!—“and the b-beard and the whole lumberjack ensemble”—Jesus please, strike me mute and spare me from this folly—“You’ve really committed to this crazy hermit shit, haven’t you?”
Gah, too late! Why did she have to have a chronic case of foot-in-mouthitis?
