Then she heard a groan behind her. She saw white breath fogging in the air. And a figure pushed out of a snowdrift, breathing hard and saying, “I told you there was only a twenty percent chance of dying.”
So Zoe hit him with a snowball because, really, what else was she supposed to do?
*
“I can’t believe you pushed me off a train.”
“It was barely moving.”
They were walking through the deep snow, slipping and sliding and please-don’t-start-an-avalanching their way down the mountain. And yet, she had to spin on him.
“A barely moving train!”
“See . . . I feel like you’re emphasizing the wrong part of that sentence.”
Zoe huffed and pushed aside a snowy limb.
Sawyer had to laugh. “Did you want to wait around for Collins’s buddies from the CIA to find us? Brownnosing asshole,” he added under his breath. “I really do hate that guy.”
“We could have just waited for it to stop!”
“In a town crawling with even more CIA agents? And no doubt MI6. And”—he looked pensive— “you know, Mossad’s got to be here by now. Do you want to go see your new friends in Mossad or do you want to—”
“Oops.” She let the limb she was holding spring back and clobber him. But the sound he made was less I just got a big face full of snow and more that actually hurt and, instantly, she turned back. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he said. “I hit something on the way down and got a scratch. That’s all.”
“Let me see.” She was reaching for the zipper of his coat.
“I’m fine.” He pried her fingers free.
“You don’t sound fine. Let me—”
But he just pulled her closer—tighter—until her arms were pinned in his and his breath fogged with hers. “Zoe, I am fine. It’s just a scratch. And we need to keep moving.”
But she couldn’t shake the feeling . . . “Are you lying?”
“Constantly.” He turned her around and nudged her forward, but she glanced back over her shoulder.
“You promised you wouldn’t die on me, remember?”
He gave her his hot guy smirk. “Why? Would you miss me?”
Oh, she hated that cocky edge to his voice—absolutely loathed how much she liked it. “No. I just need you, that’s all. For my cover.”
“Of course.”
“I don’t have time to find another fake husband, is all.”
“Naturally.” They walked on for a while, sunlight filtering through the pines. She thought for a moment he wasn’t going to say anything else, but there was a weight to the silence. She could almost hear him thinking . . . “I do have to wonder . . . am I still your fake husband if you sold your ring?”
She didn’t mean to blush, but the blood was already rushing to her cheeks in a way that had nothing to do with the cold. She tried to look away, but he took her hand and tugged gently.
“What?” he prompted.
“Well . . .”
“Well what?” He sounded almost playful—teasing—until the expression turned to worry. “Zoe, what . . .”
“It was an economics thing. You see, it was worth too much. A train ticket is more an earrings-level purchase. So . . .”
She didn’t know why, but the ring felt almost hot in her hand as she pulled it from her pocket. The silver caught the sunlight as it lay in her palm, looking like something forged by fairies a thousand years ago—precious and rare and full of magic.
“You didn’t sell it.”
His voice was soft, but his gaze was hot, like he couldn’t decide whether to kiss her or spank her or maybe a little bit of both and Zoe felt her cheeks go even redder. When he slid the ring back on her finger, her hand felt funny. Tingly. Alive with possibilities.
“Okay, Mrs. Michaelson. Let’s go find a ride.”
Chapter Forty-One
Him
The village at the base of the mountain was even smaller than the one by the river, so quaint and untouched by tourists that it wasn’t just off the beaten path, it was far from any paths of any kind. It was exactly the kind of place where two strangers wouldn’t exactly go unnoticed. Much less two people who looked like they had jumped off a boat, slept on a dirt floor, and toppled down a mountain.
Zoe must have sensed it, too, because she nervously tucked a piece of hair behind her ear.
“Yeah. That fixed it,” Sawyer said and she smacked him on the arm. He couldn’t keep from smiling.