Page 24 of Seale the Deal

My voice comes out embarrassingly high.

Across the kitchen, Ruger’s mouth curves into a knowing smile. Fantastic. He caught me staring. Remi, thankfully, seems more concerned by my abrupt departure from reality than what caused it.

Are we going? she asks, grabbing her keys.

Yeah, let me grab my purse—

Already did, sweetheart. Ruger gestures to my brown bag hanging by the door.

His smooth delivery and the way he’s acting like he’s been casually taking care of me for years sends a shiver through my body.

Thanks… babe. The word stumbles out of my mouth with the grace of a hippo on ice.

Remi fake gags. It’s a no from me. Definitely a good thing this isn’t real.

Ruger gives me a slow grin, and I try to return it with some approximation of a smile, but it feels like my face has forgotten how. Remi storms ahead, shaking her head, and we follow her out into the crisp fall air. I tug on my jean jacket, instantly wishing I’d layered better.

Cold? Ruger asks, his voice close to my ear as we head for the truck.

No, I’m fine, I lie, teeth chattering.

He lifts a brow as a breeze cuts straight through me, making me visibly shiver.

…A little cold, I squeak.

Without hesitation, Ruger pulls off the hoodie he’s wearing and hands it to me.

I take it, fingers brushing over the fabric.

Huh. It’s softer than I expected. For one hopeful second, I wonder if it’s bamboo or some kind of cotton blend, but when I check the tag—

Polyester. Tragic.

Wrenley, Remi says warningly.

I didn’t say anything.

Your face did.

I scoff, pulling the hoodie over my head. Excuse me for wanting my sweat to have somewhere to go.

The second it settles around me, warmth sinks into my skin.

Worse, it smells like him.

Jesus Christ.

This is why women steal hoodies.

God, we need to get you warmer clothes, Remi mutters as I climb into her truck. Ruger’s already buckled in the back seat. Then you won’t have to wear my brother’s sweaty, bloody hunting gear.

I glance back at him. He shakes his head, letting me know Remi is wrong about his sweater… I hope.

Alright! Remi exclaims with far too much enthusiasm. Let’s get this show on the road!

She whips a U-turn. I clutch the door, already dreading the day I have to drive this beast of a vehicle. Back in Vancouver, I drove Captain Skinny-Dick’s Honda Fit, which felt more like a roller skate compared to this truck. It was another piece of stability that disappeared with him after the breakup.

About three minutes later, we reach the outskirts of town, if you can call it that. A corner store boasting wine and spirits, a tiny church, and something called a Fur Gallery. Is that real? Or a historical sign they never took down?