The Blonde Identity (54)

So she looked up at him and said, “I’m going to kill you.”





Him


“You’re a real jerk, you know that, right?”

Sawyer did know, but that wasn’t the time to recount all his lies and betrayals and crimes both large and small. He was reclining on the couch, surrounded by at least a dozen candles and one very large bottle of vodka. He just hoped it was large enough.

“Don’t drink all that. I need it.” She grabbed the bottle back.

“Need it for— Son of a bitch!” he shouted as she poured liquid fire into the gash in his side.

“This is from the mountain, isn’t it? You said it was just a scratch.”

“It is a scratch,” he said and she gave him another splash. “It’s—fucking—”

“Language!” she scolded as she set the bottle aside and brought a candle closer to the scratch that . . . okay . . . was a little longer and a little deeper than he might have initially led her to believe.

“You were going to fight ten of Kozlov’s guys—”

“I only saw four. Five. Shit—” Another splash. “Well, now you’re just wasting it to be mean.” He grabbed the bottle back and took a swig. Something told him he was going to need it.

“Walk away, Zoe,” she said in a too-deep voice. “I don’t need your help, Zoe. You’re just a girl, Zoe.”

“Hey, I never said—”

“And then you gave me a Certifiable Movie Kiss and went to take on twenty guys way bigger and stronger and tougher—”

“Hey!” Now the thing that really hurt was his pride.

“You could have died.” He so wanted her to be teasing, but the tears in her eyes were real and so was the tremble in her voice. “You could have bled to death. You could have—”

He sat upright even though it hurt like hell, even though he’d just stopped bleeding, even though she wasn’t really his to comfort, his to console and touch and soothe.

She wasn’t really his.

So why did it feel like he had every right in the world to cup her face and feel her warm cheek in his cold palm? Why did it feel like there was a safe deep inside of him and the tumblers had finally clicked into place—the deep satisfaction of knowing that he’d cracked it.

“Hey,” he whispered, even though she wasn’t really his. And she never, ever would be.

She turned her head—lips brushing against his cupped hand—and it was all he could do to choke out, “I didn’t die. I’m okay.”

He watched Zoe bite back screams and tears and at least a million words that neither of them had the strength to say. Then he let her push him back onto the sofa. He felt the brush of her hair as it glided over his bare chest, the touch of her fingers as she traced every scratch and bruise—like she wanted to make sure he was safe—he was whole.

Sawyer had been in danger pretty much every moment of every day for a decade but that felt like the very first time anyone would actually care if he got hurt.

“Zoe . . .” His voice was rough in a way that had nothing to do with blood loss or vodka. “Baby, I . . .”

“Sawyer . . .” Her fingers traced over his skin, burning like the flames.

And then she pulled a piece of wood out of his side and Sawyer saw stars as he screamed and she leaned closer.

“Don’t ever do that again. I have no intention of becoming your fake widow.”

She threw the bloody stick onto the fire then got up and stormed away—left Sawyer lying there, wondering which part of the last three minutes was more painful.





Chapter Forty-Four





Her


Zoe didn’t know why she wasn’t sleepy. Maybe it was the long nap she’d had in the car or the chill that still clung to the stuffy air of the cabin, but she strongly suspected it had more to do with the man who refused to lie still even though she had only just finished sealing the wound in his side with superglue (yes . . . superglue).

The jerkface.

She could hear him down below, locking doors and drawing shades, stoking the fire, letting all the heat rise to the loft overhead.

The place should have come with bearskin rugs and lots of mounted antlers, but there were only a few pictures on the walls—black-and-white photos of trees and snow and the still, summertime waters of a lake. Zoe walked down the stairs, examining every one, silent as a thief, no idea what she was going to steal but certain that something precious lived hidden in those walls, swearing she wouldn’t stop until she’d found it.

“Are you hungry?” he called from down below.

There was really just one room. A few cabinets and appliances that could loosely be called a kitchen, a rickety table and chairs, and the big stone fireplace and old, dusty sofa. But somehow when she glanced over the railing, he seemed small for the first time since she’d known him.

“This place is always stocked with canned goods and first aid.” Well, at least that explained the superglue.

“And vodka,” she helped out.

“And vodka.” He took a deep swig from the bottle she hadn’t even noticed he was holding. “I can heat up some soup or—”

“I’m fine.”