Page 92 of River & Rue

“I’m so sorry, River. What she did wasn’t okay, and you deserve to feel not okay about it.”

The vehemence in my voice lifts the shadows from his eyes. “Feeling violent on my behalf, Princess?”

“Yes. I wish I’d realized sooner what was happening. I’m sorry.”

He smiles softly. “Don’t be. I’m okay. I also have a strong suspicion Larissa is about to find out what happens when you piss off the Animal Princess. Speaking of, you might want to tell Lenny not to chew her face off.”

I scoff in amusement, then pause. “I probably should. Not because I think she would. Just… in case.”

“Speaking of implausible events, did you notice the golf cart came to you?”

“It did not.”

He arches a brow. “It stopped right under where you were standing.”

“Are we seriously discussing whether or not a possessed golf cart has a vendetta against me?”

“Nope. We’re discussing the likelihood of Gilbert having a crush on you. Can’t really blame him. You were squirming on his seats quite a bit yesterday.”

I gasp and punch his arm.

River releases a wincing laugh and rubs the spot. “Damn. That’s the arm I fell on.”

“Sorry in theory, pleased in reality.”

He laughs harder, gazing at me with those sharp-soft eyes. Another layer of me peels away; another zero is added to the price I’ll have to pay. But it doesn’t matter right now. Not when his humor is fading to something even more dangerous.

“Will you hold my hand for the rest of our walk?” he asks softly.

I nod and reach for him. He reaches back, and our fingers entwine effortlessly. Palm to palm. Pulse to pulse.

As we walk through winking sunlight beneath the whispering trees, all I can think is that Teddy was right. The smallest choices really are the most powerful.

When we reach the cabin, River gives my hand a parting squeeze and beelines for his shower. A fog of melancholy tries to descend as he walks away, but I slap it down. Regardless of the dumpster fire my emotions are using to roast marshmallows, I have work to do.

After popping into my front room to make sure my laptop and headphones are charging, I head back out to retrieve my camping chair from the dome. Making the detour on our way back hadn’t been worth interrupting the dreamlike peace of our walk.

The comfy reclining chair is right where I left it, but my excitement is short-lived. Kirk delivered it via golf cart for a reason. The thing is ancient, a barely portable beast of metal and thick fabric. I finally get it mostly collapsed, only to discover the carrying straps have long since frayed to threads.

I huff and puff my way back to the cabin and drag it up the stairs. To my relief, it’s a lot easier to expand than collapse, and it fits perfectly in the corner by my door.

In no time at all, I’m set up for success, my laptop on my lap and a writing playlist in my ears. One cupholder sags under the weight of my water bottle, and the other holds the final ingredient in my productivity formula: a bag of sour gummies.

I throw a few in my mouth, then open my manuscript and eagerly check out of reality.

I’m close to the final conflict. My main character just discovered one of her trusted allies betrayed her to the enemy. She’s fled her would-be captor and is currently cracking bones in a high-stakes melee on the border of a sentient forest. Her love interest is about to arrive in a full-blown protective rage, but all he’ll find are a dozen dead bodies and evidence that she’s disappeared into the eldritch woods.

At some point over the next few hours, the part of my brain still functioning in the real world registers that I’m not alone on the porch. There’s a familiar presence nearby, silent and stable, comforting rather than distracting.

I’m so deep in the zone, I barely notice when my empty bag of gummies is replaced with a cup of apple slices. I simply munch my way through them.

Halfway through reviewing the complex choreography of the battle scene, my bladder’s demand reaches a critical level. Sighing in defeat, I rip my focus from a description of blood spraying across the main character’s face.

I save my work, then close my laptop and lower my headphones. As I tackle the perilous challenge of peeling myself off the reclining chair without dropping my laptop or peeing my pants, I hear the scratch of pencil on paper.

I look up and almost tip over.

On the other side of the porch, River sits in one of his kitchen chairs, a sketchbook in his lap and his legs propped on the railing. That alone is a lovely picture, but what makes my mouth go dry is the accessory perched on his perfect nose.