Page 93 of Gunnar

She barely acknowledges me.

Typical.

By the time I step outside, there’s a truck idling in the driveway.

Big. Black.

The windows are dark and I can’t see Gunnar at all.

I go around to the passenger side and climb in.

His scent hits me immediately—spice and pine and something warmer underneath. It’s going to be a problem, being this close.

“Tinted windows?” I say, settling into the seat.

“Orson’s truck,” he says. “He had them put in. For privacy.”

I give a dry laugh. That tracks.

I put on my sunglasses. Then he leans across and hands me a ball cap.

“Put this on too. Just to be safe.”

I nod, pull it on, and adjust it when it slips low over my eyes.

Gunnar glances at me. “Suits you.”

“Thanks,” I say, tightening it a little.

“Where are we going?” I ask as he pulls away from the lodge and starts down the steep track.

“For fuel.”

“Fuel?”

He exhales. “Usually it’s Orson’s job, but he’s gone.”

My stomach tightens.

“Gone?”

“Yeah.”

He glances at me, and our eyes meet. There’s more behind that word than either of us is ready to get into.

“He left his truck,” I say instead.

Gunnar shrugs. “Left in a hurry. Tank was empty, so he took mine.”

I nod, trying not to picture the state he must have been in to leave like that.

“Will he come back?” I ask after a moment.

The road winds down through dense pine forest, cutting back on itself in tight switchbacks. Gunnar takes it steadily, easing the truck over the ruts and patches of ice.

“I don’t know,” he says.

That’s all I’m going to get.