Page 76 of Seale the Deal

I smile and follow her into the living room. She piles blankets on the couch like we’re preparing for a blizzard instead of just watching a movie, then falls onto the couch with a dreamy sigh.

I love post-dinner couch lazing, she says.

I drop to the couch next to her. You have a really good couch for that.

She tosses me a fuzzy headband. For you.

I put it on, pushing my curls away from my face. Ready.

She hands me a plastic package, and then we apply the cold face masks and turn on a movie. From the beginning, Remi points out all the inconsistencies that her editor would never let slide in her book. It’s nice spending the evening with her. At home, I’d be sitting on the couch, trying to untangle feelings that seem to knot themselves tighter every time I pull on them. So, just for tonight, I’m going to let go of the lies, guilt, and whatever stupid fluttering my heart does every time I think of Ruger.

Chapter 13

Ruger

DAYS LEFT ON VISA: 63

I want to say that coming out here was a good idea. That the crisp air and quiet forest finally gave my brain a chance to settle. That hiking half a damn mountain and splitting wood until my shoulders burned gave me something else to focus on besides the increasingly dangerous direction my thoughts keep drifting whenever Wrenley St. James is involved.

I’d be lying. None of it worked.

Not the hike. Not the beer. Not the familiar crackle of the fire burning a few feet away from me now. Not even Brandt, who’s sitting beside me drinking beer, staring into the flames. Which is saying something because I specifically invited him so I wouldn’t spend the entire night alone in my own head.

This trip has been disturbingly quiet, Brandt says. Even for you.

I take a slow sip of beer. Didn’t realize I had a nightly conversation quota.

Brandt snorts. You don’t. But usually, you at least have something to say.

I’m relaxing.

Bullshit.

I stare back into the fire. Just got a lot on my mind.

Sometimes being a man of few words is a good thing. Because what I’m thinking about is more than I can tell him. I just didn’t expect it all to follow me into the woods. Usually, being out here fixes something in me. The wilderness has no expectations and no noise, making it an easy place to distance myself from my worries. Tonight, it feels like there’s not a space far enough that Wrenley won’t follow me.

Wedding stuff? Brandt asks.

Something like that.

You worried about the wedding night? Brandt teases.

I narrow my eyes at him. When’s the last time you had a ‘wedding night’?

Brandt chokes slightly on his beer before covering it with a cough. I raise a brow because that must mean there’s someone, but whoever that someone is, he doesn’t want me to know.

You implying I’m not getting laid? he asks, not recovering as smoothly as he probably thinks.

A part of me wants to try and figure out what he’s hiding, but I worry if I pry too hard, he’ll do the same back. Instead, I go for nonchalance. Absolutely.

I’ll have you know my dick is getting plenty of attention, he says, taking a pull of his beer. But based on the fact that you asked me to come camping in the middle of the week, I’m wondering if I should be worried about yours.

I grimace. I’d prefer if you didn’t think about my dick.

If a best friend can’t worry about his best friend’s dick, who can? he says smoothly, like this is normal conversation.

I blink. I have a fiancée for that.