13. Charlotte

13

CHARLOTTE

M y mind still reels from what Grayson just said. I mean, what am I supposed to do with that?

The tension between us has grown taut as a spider’s web. I’m not sure where this is going, but I have a feeling the escalation has just begun.

“We’re here,” Grayson says. Totally unnecessary. Obviously this is the safe house, because the road literally ends right in front of it. There’s nowhere else to go, and I doubt he’d park in front of a random cabin.

Because that’s what the safehouse is. A cabin, with only one room by the looks of it. It’s also obvious that there’s no electricity, and probably no running water, either.

“Well, this is certainly…rustic.”

Grayson’s lips draw tightly.

“I’m sorry. Not the most glamorous locale.”

“No, it’s fine. Believe it or not, I think it might be nice to get away from civilization for a while.”

“Not entirely away from it. I do have a generator so we can run a light, a ceiling fan, and maybe charge up our phones. That’s about it, though. It won’t have the juice to power a television. Not that there is a television.”

He laughs, and runs a hand through his hair.

“I’m not exactly selling this place, am I?”

“No, your sales pitch needs some polish, for real. What, you never impersonated a marketing expert during your tenure as a spy?”

“No, usually I was impersonating someone a little bit more…criminally inclined.”

He exits the Jeep and strides across the dirt driveway to the cabin’s entrance. Grayson fiddles with a ring of jangling keys until he finds the right one to open the door. I grab my bags and wait patiently as he tries to push the door open.

“The wood’s a little swollen,” he mutters, plying his shoulder into the aged timbers. After a couple of firm shoulder rams, he gets the door open. A musty, sawdust-laden aroma emanates out into the night.

“Just a second.”

He goes inside, vanishing into pools of deep shadow. I can only vaguely make out his form in the darkness. A spark flashes, making me squint, as he strikes up a lighter. Grayson lights an old-fashioned oil lamp, setting it on a battered wooden table when he’s done.

He goes around the room and lights several more. It's not exactly bright as day when he’s done, but I can make out features inside the cabin. An obligatory bear skin rug sits in front of a rugged fireplace formed from what looks like natural stone. A wood burning stove in the corner bears a big dutch oven with a blackened lid. Two wooden chairs sit next to the table bearing the oil lamp. The only other bit of furnishing is a sofa with tacky upholstery that I suspect folds out into a bed.

“Let me give you the grand tour,” he says. “This is it.”

I chuckle and glance around.

“I don’t suppose there’s a bathroom?”

“There’s a composting toilet through that door there. It’s, ah, open air, so take a shotgun with you in case there’s a mountain lion.”

“Um, I’ve never even held a shotgun before.”

Grayson’s brows rise high over his silver-gray eyes.

“Really? How long have you lived in LA?”

“All my life, but what does that have to do with anything?”

“It was a joke.”

We’re both laughing now. It feels good, warmth and elation filling my body. As we calm down, our eyes meet. I can see a lot of things in his silver gaze. They mirror what I feel inside, and I’m not sure if that scares me or not.

Our laughter subsides, leaving behind a happy glow in my chest. Our eyes meet again, and what I see in his gaze makes me shiver. I have to look away. My heart thuds so loud it deafens me.

Grayson steps closer, his fingers caressing my cheek. I tremble with equal parts fear and desire.

“Charlotte.”

He speaks my name as if reciting poetry. I can’t look him in the eyes. If I do, this is going to escalate.

Then I wonder, what’s wrong with that?