Chapter 31

It’s fucking freezing. I can’t believe she didn’t light a fire. My hands are devoid of any color when I tug my gloves off, even on the fingers cut by that rock earlier.

Her voice lowers until she’s mumbling, “We’re gonna freeze to death in this tower, aren’t we?”

I groan. “With all your bitching, hopefully sooner than later.”

“Shut up, this is serious.”

Laughing without humor, I say, “You shut up!” Not my best comeback, but I can’t deal with her negative attitude. The laceration on her forehead has me biting my tongue before I say anything more. She needs to take care of that. She must see me staring at it, because her fingers find the edge of the cut, then she pulls them away.

“I’ll deal with it.”

“I’m sure,” I say, rolling my eyes.

I drop the box of matches in front of the wood stove and select the skinniest pieces of tinder. Opening the little door, I squat down on the balls of my feet and am immediately greeted by a stiff dead squirrel with no eyes.

It’s at that moment she has the genius idea to instruct me on how to start a fire. Me. A hotshot. I light fires for a living, and she thinks she knows better than me? I about lose it on the spot. My blood pressure skyrockets. I cannot believe the level of frustration this woman brings, I’ll stroke out before I freeze to death with her.

I remove the squirrel and drop it on the floor as she continues to tell me how to do my own damn job. Slowly, I turn my head to glower at her. “You are fuckin’ brain damaged if you think I don’t know how to start a fire.”

“I’m just trying to help!” she shouts, crossing her arms.

“You wanna help? Here, get rid of this.” I pick up the squirrel and lob it toward her like a big fat dart. The squirrel torpedoes through the air with its tail flapping and lands next to her on the ground with a soft thump.

“What the hell is that?” She brings her face closer to inspect it, then screams and scrambles backward. Turning back to the stove with a small satisfied grin, I get the kindling set up and adjust the damper so there’s less wind barreling through as I try to light it. I’m pleased when the dry slivers of wood catch quickly and heat rolls off the fresh flames.

“Asshole!” Something hits my back with a thud.

“I know you didn’t just chuck that squirrel at me,” I say, warning in my voice.

“You threw it first.”

I twist around on my heels, dropping a knee, and glance down. Sure enough, there’s our flat furry friend. I clutch the squirrel and shake it at her with each declaration. “I saved your ass by pulling you out from under that rock. I practically carried you up this mountain. I gave you shelter. I fetched you water. I started this fucking fire. I gave you everything, Prescott! Everything! And it’s still not enough for you!”

Holy shit, that felt good to get off my chest.

She clamps her mouth shut. I hold my breath, and we stare at each other for a solid ten seconds, barely blinking .

Finally, I break the silence. “I’m not playing catch with you, get rid of it.” On the last shake, the critter’s neck snaps and the head falls to the floor. I gaze down at the eyeless, shriveled rodent face with orange teeth. Ugh.

She’s got the nerve to bite her lip and look away as she attempts to smother a grin. Does she think this is funny?

“Don’t you dare laugh.”

“I’m not!” she says, her lips breaking into a smile around the words. She can’t even look at me with a straight face.

I fling the body back to her, and it lands at her feet. This time, she picks up both pieces of the squirrel and wisely steers for the door. I purse my lips and return to stoking the fire. It was kind of funny. Holding my hands up to the flames, I rub them together, willing the blood to return, and it’s not long before prickles work their way to my fingertips. I hiss through my gritted teeth as the nerve pain intensifies.

She opens and closes the door quickly, evicting the dead vermin. Behind me, the sound of a zipper and rustling of her bag tells me she’s rifling through it for something.

“Get over here and warm up,” I growl.

A couple seconds later, she squats down next to me and offers a small bottle of sanitizer. “Here.”

I take it from her and rub it on my hands. They’re still rigid as the numbness takes its sweet time dissolving. “Sorry about the lantern,” I say, barely above a whisper. I don’t want to apologize first, but I do it anyway.

She doesn’t respond, and we simply crouch shoulder-to-shoulder in front of the flames.

“Thank you for starting a fire.” She unzips and shrugs out of her coat. Nodding in my direction, she encourages me to do the same. “Get down to your base layers.”

“In a minute.” I’m too tired to move.

“Are these boots wet?” She reaches down and unties the knots in my laces .

“How do you think I found the stream?”

My toes are numb. While she does that, I turn off my headlamp. I don’t need to see how pale they are. I sit down, and she yanks at the boot, removing it from my foot, then peeling off my wool socks. Even with the dim orange light from the stove, my feet look like they belong in a morgue. She rubs them carefully and guides me to sit closer to the crackling fire.

“Agh!” I say as my heels feel like they’re getting poked with needles.

“Wimp,” she mutters, pulling off her own boots and socks. Hers are equally pale, save for the delicate pink nail polish on her toes.

“It fuckin’ hurts,” I argue.

She ignores me, pushing down her soft-shell pants.

I raise an eyebrow. “How big of a show are you gonna give me?” I ask, mostly to piss her off. She’s kinda hot when she’s feisty.

“You’re a dick.”

I shrug. “Well, I’m a dick that’s going to keep you warm tonight… You have no idea how many women would love to be on the receiving end of that sentence.”

She scoffs. “I’m aware of your proclivities. You don’t need to rub salt in the wound.”

What’s that supposed to mean? I roll my eyes and scoot back to grab the first aid kit hanging on the side of the island. “Speaking of wounds…”

I shove the box toward her. She pops the latch and digs around until she finds a sterile alcohol pad, then brings it to her forehead to wipe away the dried blood; however, without a mirror, she misses a lot of it. I watch her struggle until I can’t take it anymore.

“Here, give it to me… close your eyes.”

She does, and I flip my headlamp on, aiming it at her forehead. It’s the first time I’m getting a good look at the gash along her hairline. Dried blood cracks, flaking off as I clean up the crusty edges. It’s a gnarly cut. She probably should have gotten stitches. I fold the pad in half and dab off the rest of the dirt on her face.

“How is it?” she asks.

“Better. You’re gonna have a decent scar though.”

“I don’t remember how it happened.”

“Still have a headache?” I mutter.

“I took some ibuprofen, it took the edge off.”

“Concussion?” I ask.

“Probably.”

Shit. I don’t know what to do for a concussion. “So what do I have to do? Make sure you don’t fall asleep or something?”

She shakes her head no. “I’m able to hold a conversation with you?—”

“You’re able to argue with me,” I correct.

“Even better. Besides, if I decide to stroke out or have a seizure, there’s nothing you’ll be able to do about it anyway.”

“So the cup’s half full, then?”