Page 29 of Famous for a Living

This, though. Whatever this is, is not cozy.

Or even a cabin.

I look at the single cutout window that’s smaller than they use in prisons. A hole in the floorboards of the porch is so big it threatens to swallow my foot whole.

Not really a tiny home.

Not a shack.

More like, if the three little pigs went into business but were rushed because the bank was getting tetchy about the building deadline for the construction loan and a wolf was on their tail, this would be a very realistic end result. A square house of logs the size of my closet.

I tilt my head. No. This has to be smaller.

I inhale.

It doesn’t matter.

It doesn’t matter.

Because no matter what, even if it were two sticks propped up against a tree, there is no way I will do anything after this whole road experience except look at this structure as if it is exactly what I was expecting.

And I’m just thrilled with it.

Just.

Positively.

Thrilled.

In fact, I’m going to smile now.

Despite the fact I have zero energy left after this day that never ends, I’m going to conjure up a delighted and approving smile.

Just for Zaiah.

See? I smile at the back of his coat as he works on the door. Smiling.

Mine is the third in a row of these structures bundled together, I note. And while others may be put off by the proximity to other “cabins” and people in a forest this big, seeing the other porch lights and signs of life inside is the only thread keeping me together right now.

I’ve lived thirteen years in a city of 8.4 million people.

At any given time there were at least a hundred people within screaming distance if I needed help.

And sure, I expected 95 percent of those people to, at best, whip out their phones and video whatever crisis I was in, but still. At least I wouldn’t die alone.

A gal gets used to that assurance after so many years. The idea of being out of earshot of anyone in a forest like this would kill me.

I hear a snap in the distance and whip my head in that direction. Or grizzlies. I take a step closer to the back of Zaiah.

He stands beneath the small front porch roof held up by the bodies of knotty pines and works the key in the door. It’s been quite the collection of seconds now, I realize, and the door seems to not want to let us in as much as I don’t want to go. But at last it gives, making a tremendous creak as it swings open, and he takes a step inside and flicks on the light.

A moment later, I hear him mutter under his breath.

As I step inside I realize why.

“Jax said he just fixed this one up this morning,” Zaiah growls.

“Who’s Jax?”