Page 17

Not awkward silence.

Respect.

The kind men fall into when something dangerous enters the room.

I turn instinctively.

And there’s Rhett.

He stands near the back entrance, broad shoulders filling the doorway, dark thermal stretched across his chest, Spring snow still melting off his boots. His expression doesn’t change as he takes in the projector screen.

But his eyes do.

Cold.

Violently cold.

The auctioneer clears his throat nervously. “Rhett…”

Rhett doesn’t answer him.

He walks straight toward me instead.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Every person in the lodge moves aside automatically.

The crowd parts for him without being asked.

I should feel relieved seeing him.

Instead my pulse kicks harder.

Because the look on his face?

That’s not calm.

That’s control barely holding itself together.

He stops directly in front of me, gaze scanning my face once before shifting toward the screen again.

“Who touched the projector?” he asks quietly.

Nobody answers.

Rhett looks toward the drunk tourist next.

The man visibly swallows.

“I didn’t do anything,” he says quickly.

Rhett keeps staring at him.

Then he reaches into his back pocket, pulls out a thick fold of cash, and drops it onto the auction table hard enough to make everyone jump.

“Ten thousand.”