Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

REED

It had happened again.

I woke in the tiny wood-paneled bedroom of the caretaker cabin with a warm, comfortable vanilla-scented weight against me, soft snores floating over my bare chest, and my cock hard enough to drill for water.

I groaned silently.

How. The. Fuck?

The first time I'd woken up in this situation—or the first time in this cabin , at least, I mentally corrected—I'd been honestly shocked. The night we arrived, I'd gone to sleep on the little pink-and-green-striped love seat in the living area after a protracted argument about sleeping arrangements with my protectee, who had a fuckton of opinions for a man who claimed he hated arguing.

Chris had pointed out that the love seat was less than half the length of my body and seemed to be upholstered in burlap, that I was still bruised up from the fight at the roadhouse, that he'd fit there better than I would if I insisted on sleeping separately. He'd also claimed that he had no problem with us sharing the bed—"You told me you'd bunked with all your brothers, Reed! You said it was no big deal!"—which was a hell of a change from his wide-eyed, stammering reluctance to get within two feet of me back at the motel and from the way he'd snarkily called me on my shit when Watt had showed us around the place.

I'd stood firm, though, even when he'd given me the pursed-lipped, roll-eyed glare that I was coming to think of as Chris's "Bossiness is Unattractive, Reed" look. I was the protector, I'd reminded him. I'd sleep closer to the door, end of discussion.

What I hadn't admitted was that given my predilection for kissing him—twice now, for fuck's sake, and the second time had been purposeful and premeditated and achingly arousing because, apparently, I liked Chris snarky and angry every bit as much as I liked him sweet and cheerful—sleeping next to him would be a very big deal…

And a really bad idea.

Which was why it had come as such a shock when I'd woken up the next morning in Chris's bed with the quilt I'd been using on the sofa neatly spread across the two of us, almost like I'd laid it over us intentionally.

I'd managed to sneak back to the living room with Chris none the wiser, but the slip had troubled me. A lot. Had I taken to sleepwalking? That was not only a huge lapse of control but a massive liability in my line of work.

So the next night, after we'd spent the day exploring the property and its ten ruined cabins and eaten a "quick little charcuterie dinner" Chris had thrown together that involved salami rosettes and thinly sliced fans of Watt's homegrown cantaloupe like something out of a magazine, I'd taken precautions.

"Make sure you close your bedroom door tonight," I'd told Chris fake-casually. "It might be chilly in the morning, and you'll be better insulated that way. If it stays cold, I'll need to chop some kindling and figure out how to get this little woodstove working."

Chris had been surprisingly agreeable, calling it a "great plan" and even gifting me a sweet smile and a "Sleep well, Reed!" before going to bed. I'd watched him close the door, for heaven's sake.

And yesterday morning when I'd woken, the door had remained closed…

But somehow, I'd been on the other side of it, with Chris's face buried in my neck and one small hand tangled in my hair.

That time, I hadn't been quite as lucky when I'd tried to slither out from under the quilt—my freaking sofa quilt, again —because Chris had woken up. To my relief, he hadn't seemed freaked-out to find me there, though. Hadn't been angry. Hadn't even made a snarky comment. He'd just given me a little kiss on the cheek and a teasing "Good morning, husband!" before heading for the kitchen, chatting cheerfully about how "You probably won't need to worry about the stove since Henry at the hardware store says it's supposed to be sunny and summer-hot this weekend!" and "Oh, hey, can we drive back to town again today and get more fruit?" like me being in his bed was totally normal.

But then, Chris seemed to be taking everything about this situation in stride. Living in a drafty cabin so tiny you could reach over and turn on the kitchen faucet without leaving the love seat? "So cozy!" Renovating little shacks in the woods? "These are going to be so pretty! Let's make a supply list!" Meeting a dozen inquisitive strangers during our quick (read: long as fuck) supply trip to town because fucking Watt had either failed to get my message about "privacy" or chosen to ignore it, and now everyone wanted to meet the "honeymooners of Copper County"? "Hi! I'm Chris Sunday"—one small but strong arm around my waist—"and this is my, um, h-husband, Reed."

Hell, Chris was even taking the situation with his uncle well.

He steadfastly refused to believe Dante was guilty of anything until he saw the proof, of course, but that didn't seem unreasonable to me. In his shoes, I'd have wanted the same. And Chris had been patient about getting it, too. Though he reminded me daily—at a minimum—that I hadn't yet fulfilled my promise, he hadn't given me any ultimatums… yet.

And in the meantime, he talked about Dante constantly when we were alone, telling me stories from his childhood. Some were normal stories, like Dante teaching Chris the cheese business and the intricacies of wine pairings. Others were silly stories, like his uncle's commitment to composting but his squeamishness about worms. The rest were seriously WTF stories Chris somehow thought were cute, like when he'd informed Dante he was gay, only for Dante to nod, stroke his mustache, and suggest an arranged marriage with a nice boy.

I figured Chris was hoping to convince me that Dante was way too good an uncle to possibly be guilty of any crimes, like the two things were mutually exclusive, but I didn't have the heart to tell him it wasn't working.

And the stories were definitely helping me understand Chris better.

So when he said things like, "I trust you, Reed, I do… I just can't make it make sense, you know?" with an anxious little frown on his forehead, like he wanted to make sure I wasn't upset or taking his mistrust personally… I believed hi m. And though it shouldn't have meant a damn to me, it did.

All in all, it felt like Chris had accepted the reality of our situation over the past two days and was trying to make the best of it, adapting and settling in to our cover story like he was the professional of the two of us.

I… wasn't doing as well.

I still hadn't heard a single word from the Division—not a callback, not an answer to my request to send me something I could show Chris proving his uncle's involvement, not even a "Hey, we got your message about the safe house fuckery, and we sure are glad you and your protectee are okay, Sunday." The situation was unprecedented in my entire career at the Division, and ordinarily, I'd have lost my shit at everyone from Margot right on up to the Oval Office… but I hadn't.

I was also struggling with our location. Under any other circumstances, the newlywed story—while not my first or even twelfth choice of cover, thank you so much, Oak Bartlett—would have granted us a little privacy, but nothing trumped a small town's need to ferret out a story. And while Chris seemed happy enough here, and his big brown eyes went all soft and gooey every time a handsome local man (and Jesus fuck, there were a statistically unlikely number of them) invited us to a barbecue, or to join the Pumpkin Brigade, or to have a John Ruffian: Pretender marathon next Tuesday (this from Watt Bartlett, who was determined to be Chris's new BFF, and his "oh, and you can come too, Reed… if you want" did not fool me for one second), with every invitation, I felt my muscles tense and my blood pressure rise.

I should have put a stop to it. But I didn't do that either.

And why, one might ask, was I putting aside everything I'd learned through years of training, experience, and common sense?

I blamed my husband.

Fake husband.

Protectee.

Whatever .

Because there were still many things I didn't understand about Chris, no matter how many stories he told. Like, why was he so chill that he'd gotten into my car without question yet he was willing to throw down when I'd informed him that he would not be getting on a twenty-foot ladder to fix a cabin roof?

Why did he have zero fucks to give when a biker gang was throwing chairs past his head but zero tolerance for my "grumpiness" and "lack of communication" when I'd tried to put some much-needed distance between us the morning after our motel room kiss?

Why was he savvy enough to recognize the make and model of a gun, and the species of some big-ass flowers in Watt's garden, and whether a shopper at Lyon's Imperial was about to spend way too much on cheese ("It's not aged Parmesan, you see? I'm afraid this price is highway robbery, sir."), but not enough to recognize that his family were a bunch of criminals who'd put him in the path of yet more criminals and hadn't even bothered to warn him?

How had he grown up so damn innocent in a cesspool of corruption… and become the hottest person I'd ever met? Why did the idea of him wandering into danger make me insane? Why did I want to make him happy more than I wanted to keep my professional distance? And how was I supposed to do my job when every time I closed my eyes, I imagined him under me in the bed I wasn't supposed to be sl eeping in and replayed those sweet, stammery sounds he made when he came?

Last night, I'd waited until after Chris showered in the tiny bathroom off the living room, refilled his water bottle and, with one bare toe peeking out of yet another pair of my borrowed pants to trace across the wood floor, wished me good night and closed the bedroom door. Then I'd gotten up and stacked the empty cooler on top of the industrial-sized package of seltzer cans Chris had picked out at the market yesterday, forming a tidy wall in front of the door to protect myself from bad choices.

No doubt when I opened the door, the wall would be right where I'd left it before I'd somehow, against my will and in defiance of all common sense and professionalism, spirited myself into his bed last night.

And the worst part of all was that with Chris's scent in my nose and his mouth inches from mine, I couldn't even regret it.

I needed to stop this nonsense immediately. As in now . Right this second.

My arms tightened around him without my permission, and Chris let out a little moan that made my cock twitch. Eyes closed, he sighed and rolled more fully against me, dragging his slim fingers down my naked chest and bringing his own very excited cock— ah fuck —to rest against my hip.

This made it exponentially more difficult for me to sneak out without waking him… but that was the least of my problems.

I sucked in a breath and reminded myself I had been trained to resist torture. I could be questioned at length without giving up information. I'd been placed in high-stress simulations precisely so I could develop resistance and be strong under pressure .

But when his hand snuck down to the edge of the quilt where it sat at my waist, and lower , my breath left me in a shudder. This was worse than anything I'd ever trained for. I was consumed by want, and the way Chris was biting his lip and holding his breath even in his sleep meant he wanted it just as much?—

Wait a minute. Who held their breath in their sleep?

I slapped a hand down over his when it was still a few precious, crucial inches above my cock. "Getting a little real there, fake husband."

Chris made a big production of yawning and fluttering his eyes open. "Reed? Goodness, I must've been sleeping hard!"

Something was definitely hard.

The man was a terrible liar. Yet another thing that shouldn't have been a turn-on, yet there I was, fighting the urge to laugh… and fighting the urge to let his hand continue its quest.

I gave his flank a teasing slap, and when he yelped out a laugh, I took the opportunity to slide out from underneath him. "Come on. Weren't you the one saying how warm it was going to be today? Let's get an early start. Dibs on first bathroom."

Resigned but cheerful, Chris climbed out of bed and put on his glasses. By the time I'd finished brushing my teeth and changing my sleep pants for shorts and a T-shirt, Chris already had coffee brewing in the kitchenette, which someone—probably Watt, I grudgingly admitted—had outfitted with a minifridge, a cooktop, a microscopic microwave/oven combo, a toaster, a coffee maker, and even some coffee. While Chris took his turn in the bathroom, I toasted a bagel and handed it to him when he emerged, damp and pink-cheeked, a little while later .

"Oh my gosh! Thank you so much, Reed." Chris's eyes shone like the slightly burnt bread product on a paper plate was a priceless diamond.

I might have been all twisted up over the situation, but my dick knew exactly how it felt about those big brown eyes… and the soft, clingy fabric of his thrifted black athletic shorts, and the olive-green T-shirt that set off his freckles.

I mumbled something and forced myself to focus on my coffee.

"So… still working on the roof of Cabin 7?" Chris wondered. He curled up in one corner of the love seat, plate on his bent knees, and picked off small sections of his bagel.

I made a sound of agreement. "Turned out to be a bigger project than I thought—" Chris inhaled as if about to speak, and because I knew exactly what he was going to say, I fixed him with a glare. "—and no, I still don't need your help."

He pursed his lips. "But I know what I'm doing," he said with a sigh. "I'm really good at fixing roofs. Practically an expert."

"Yeah, you said," I agreed. "Then I asked you how that was possible for a charcuterie specialist, and you said, ‘ I contain multitudes, Reed Sunday .'" I sipped my coffee. "Which certainly put me in my place but, believe it or not, does not reassure me that you have practical experience."

"Well, I do." Rolling his eyes, Chris pulled his knees to his chest and balanced his plate on top—a daytime version of the protective position he sometimes adopted when he was sleeping. It was really, unbearably, annoyingly adorable.

I slouched against the counter, coffee in hand, and watched him steadily.

"Ugh, fine." His cheeks went pink—probably more with pique than embarrassment. "If you must know, I learned to fix a roof because I broke one, okay? One time I… I pulled a telescope out onto the little porch roof outside my bedroom window so I could watch a meteor shower. And it's possible that it was a very expensive telescope, and also that Uncle Danny might have…" He coughed. "…casually indicated that I was definitely not allowed to take it out on the roof."

My lips twitched. "You? Mr. Straight and Narrow? Disobeyed on purpose?"

"I have never claimed to be s-straight." Chris gave me a look that made my blood sizzle. "And yes, I suppose technically I disobeyed. But it was a tiny, trivial, inconsequential disobedience. And if Danny had understood the extenuating circumstances, he might have understood." He adjusted his glasses. "Nonna always said that if you make a wish on a falling star, it's guaranteed to come true. It was a once-in-a-lifetime cosmic event, Reed."

I ran a hand over my mouth to hide my smile. "Not quite seeing how this led to your roof repair expertise. Did you smash the telescope through the roof?"

"Gosh, no! Nothing that dramatic." He waved a hand. "I just, you know, put my foot through it."

"Your foot ?" I straightened out of my slouch. "Through the roof ? What the fuck?"

"There was a spongy spot I didn't notice until I was just about to make my wish, and my foot sort of… broke right through it, and I lost my balance. But I didn't fall off, and I saved the telescope," he added proudly. "Which wasn't what I was going to wish for, exactly, but was good luck anyway, don't you think?"

Who gave a single shit about the fucking telescope ?

"Were you hurt?" I demanded. "You could have broken your ankle." Though he was sitting in front of me with two perfectly functional feet, I was ready to carry him off for an X-ray… eight years after the fact.

Ridiculous .

"I was fine. A little sore and a little scared, but mostly, I felt awful that I'd damaged Danny's house," he said earnestly. "So I watched some YouTube videos, and the next day, I drove to the hardware store and used my savings to buy supplies so I could fix everything myself." He ripped off another piece of bagel and chewed it thoughtfully. "In the end, it all worked out because whoever did the roof initially hadn't done the waterproofing right, and it might have been a much bigger issue later if I hadn't taken care of it. Plus, now I have this amazing roofing experience, so… all's well that ends well, right?" He smiled brightly.

"Jesus," I muttered. "Your uncle just let you fix his roof?"

"Well…" His cheeks went red. "Not exactly. It was only one small section, and I was able to finish it while he was at work. But what's important here is that I got it done?—"

"You repaired the roof in secret."

"No! I mean… well, yes. Technically. But you make it sound like I'm some kind of criminal." He laughed lightly. Then he froze with a piece of bagel halfway to his lips, and his eyes went impossibly wide. "Oh my gosh, am I a criminal?"

I snorted, simultaneously charmed and turned on. At this point, I wasn't sure Chris could do anything I didn't find attractive.

The thought was enough to make my laughter die. "Not a criminal, a typical teenager," I said shortly. "Now, eat up and let's go."

Chris chewed his bagel obediently, and for a second, I allowed myself to think that the conversation was done and I could escape without further distracting thoughts about my protectee.

Silly me.

"Did you have a teen hangout spot when you were growing up?" Chris asked abruptly.

Confused by the topic shift, I shrugged. "Sure. There's a little clearing in the woods behind the Apple of My Eye—you know, the inn right off the main road in the Hollow? We called it the Grove because it was in the trees, and we had no imagination whatsoever. Why?"

"Just curious. I've never been to a place like that. I kinda missed out on that part of being a teenager." Chris leaned toward me, doe eyes gleaming. "What sorts of things did you do there? Secret rituals? Gambling? Lovemaking? Duels ?"

If he'd been one whit less sincere, I might have laughed. "No secret rituals, unless you count standing around drinking stale beer in the freezing cold. But I guess occasionally we…"

A hazy memory floated through my brain of Jonas Pilkey's cousin Seth—pretty, shy, inexperienced Seth—who'd been visiting the Hollow the summer I turned sixteen, giving me my first blowjob. Jonas had punched me in the mouth afterward—for his cousin's honor, maybe? Who remembered?—but I'd still thought it was worth it because I'd finally understood what my dick was for.

"Occasionally?" Chris prompted.

I looked over at him, easily as shy and inexperienced as Seth but a billion times prettier.

The last thing I needed was to discuss blowjobs with him. As annoyed as I was at having to fix up these cabins, I recognized we needed something to keep us busy and away from other… activities.

"Nothing," I mumbled. "We're burning daylight. You gonna eat that bagel or shred it for compost?"

His face fell a bit, but he nodded and pushed his plate onto the counter. "I'm not hungry. Let's get started."

We walked outside, past the fire pit and across the path that cut through the grassy field at the center of the property. Chris trailed his hand over the tall stalks of grass that bordered the path, which came up to his thighs in some spots.

I bumped my arm into his. "You're still working on Cabin 3, right?"

"Huh? Oh. Yeah." Chris perked up. "I should finish scraping and sanding the trim around the windows this morning. Later, I'm going to work on the section of the ceiling that needs to be replaced. And when I'm done with that, maybe I'll go down to the lake for a bit. I bet it's gorgeous in the sunshine."

I hated the idea of him having to do this work. The poor guy had been yanked out of his life, sent on the run, and now he was scraping rotten wood for no pay. But I had to remind myself this cover story was for his protection, and this work was critical to the cover story.

"Don't work too hard, okay? The renovations are only our cover story, not an actual job." I'd had to remind myself of that several times this week. It was unexpectedly satisfying to see the cabins shaping up and tempting to want to take on larger jobs. Jobs I might not be here long enough to finish.

"Oh, and don't go in the water," I added. "It's cold. Like, hypothermia cold. I waded in just a few feet yesterday, but the lake bed drops away very quickly, which means it doesn't get warm, even close to the shore?—"

He sighed. "You told me already. I wasn't planning to swim."

"Good," I said gruffly. "Hey, call me when you're ready to do the ceiling. I'll give you a hand."

His eyes flicked up to me. "Why? I can do it. I'm pretty good at repairing and repainting ceilings, too."

My lips twitched. "Do I even want to know how you obtained that skill?"

"I suppose you could ask Van about the Ale-pocalypse…" He hesitated. "Actually, on second thought, please don't."

Once again, I found myself fighting not to laugh. Had I ever been this amused this close to sunrise? If so, I couldn't remember.

"Come get me when you're ready," I reminded him as the paths to the cabins split.

Chris set his jaw, looking distinctly unhappy. "If you need my help with the roof, just yell." Without another word, he turned right toward the lake and Cabin 3.

For half a minute, I imagined Chris putting his foot through a roof again, only this time getting truly hurt. The idea made me shiver despite the warm sunshine.

"Not gonna happen," I muttered as I turned left and headed deeper into the woods near Cabin 7, where I'd left Watt's ladder and a bunch of borrowed tools.

The day before, I'd set out to replace a few shingles on the east-facing side of the cabin. Only once I'd gotten up there and started removing the damaged spots I'd noticed just how much rot was hiding beneath the surface. I'd ended up stripping everything so I could replace the plywood underlay, and today, I needed to finish the job.

Unlike certain people, I was not skilled in roof repair, so I'd have to concentrate—which was a good thing because for once I'd be too distracted to think about Chris at all.

Or so I thought.

But after I'd crawled off the ladder and begun laying the shingles, soaking in the hot sunshine, the wail of the loons, and the faint, rhythmic sound of Chris's sander in the distance, I remembered the look on Chris's face earlier. It wasn't quite sad, but definitely not happy. Thoughtful, kind of. Wistful, maybe?

Jesus Christ.

Wistful, Reed? Really? I'd be spouting poetry next.

The last time I'd been so consumed with someone that I'd spent actual minutes of my life thinking about their expressions and wondering at their moods was… never. Literally never. I was living in upside-down land. But I couldn't think of a way to get things back on track short of… well, simply giving in and fucking him.

If I did give in—if the next time I woke up with his body in my arms, his clean vanilla scent in my nose, and his sleepy brown eyes blinking up at me, I simply rolled into him instead of away, pressed my lips to his, kissed my way down his body, took him in my mouth, fingered him until he made those hot little whimpers he'd made the other night, and then sank inside him—then his spell over me would be broken. One hundred percent definitely. No matter how great the sex was, new experiences were my catnip—one reason why my career at the Division was so fulfilling—and once this thing with Chris wasn't new anymore, it wouldn't feel so tempting. So necessary.

So fucking inevitable.

Afterward, Chris would go back to being my protectee, and I'd be able to focus on something besides my needy dick for a change. I'd quit allowing the Division to blow off my many requests for status updates and copies of Dante's file because I wouldn't be dreading the moment Chris realized the truth and his gut-punch eyes filled with tears. I'd stop growling like a jealous caveman—a ridiculously embarrassing turn of events I'd never experienced before and hoped to never experience again—whenever Chris struck up a conversation with yet another buff, friendly dude in town. I'd stop being so annoyed that Oak's reply to my "WTF? Why'd you tell Watt we were MARRIED?" text had been a string of laugh-cry emojis and a very misguided "I have a feeling you'll thank me later, bro." I'd stop being so agitated all the damn time, and maybe Chris would stop being so unhappy. In a way, I'd actually be able to protect Chris better if we?—

I sat back on my heels. Holy shit. Was I really considering this? Was I high? Was I dehydrated? What the hell was in those shingle fumes that was making this seem like a plausible idea?

You will not have sex with your protectee , I reminded myself firmly. Because the potential damage to my career wasn't the only risk.

Chris had said something the other day about our kiss at the motel being his first. If that was true… Well, for one thing, it meant the man was a kissing prodigy because that had been a hell of a kiss. For another, though, it meant he probably wasn't looking to me for a quick, enjoyable fuck. More than likely, he'd deluded himself into thinking this whole situation was romantic or something—a common and normal reaction when you were in danger and dependent on someone to protect you, and one of the reasons the Division forbade agents from these sorts of entanglements.

Chris really didn't want me , Reed Sunday—how could he when he didn't know me? He wanted someone to cling to because the rest of his life was in upheaval.

But I was not that person.

I lifted the hem of my T-shirt to wipe the sweat from my eyes and decided I needed a cold drink. Dehydration still wasn't off the table, and if I was feeling it, Chris could be, too.

Crawling over to the ladder, I realized I couldn't hear the sound of Chris's sander. I couldn't say how long it had been since I'd heard it either, which wasn't good. If I couldn't keep my eyes on him at all times, I at least needed to keep my ears on him. Odds were, he'd started replacing the drywall on the ceiling and hadn't bothered to come and get me.

I scowled as I stowed my tools in the five-gallon bucket Watt had provided and mopped my sticky hands with a rag. I had never met anyone who hated accepting help as much as Chris did. He was too used to working alone. Too driven to prove how capable he was.

And he was capable. I could admit that. The other morning, he'd riffled around Watt's tool shed and found everything we needed. At the hardware store, he'd known precisely what sorts of fasteners to get for every job. And fuck knew the man could assemble a meal fit for a party from just a few slices of cheese and a melon. But knowing how to do things didn't mean he should be climbing tall ladders and using circular saws and lifting heavy drywall over his head alone.

He was small. Breakable. Important. Precious.

Fuck .

Maybe Chris wasn't the only deluded one.

I stalked through the trees toward Cabin 3, my boots sinking into the thick carpet of pine needles and releasing a spicy scent that made me think of Vermont and my siblings. For the first time in a long time, I wished I could call one of them, or maybe all of them, and get their advice on this crazy fucking situation. I imagined Porter would make a ridiculous joke at my expense, and Emma would make me a to-do list. Knox would make a sarcastic comment that turned out to be surprisingly insightful. Webb would be calm and no-nonsense, dispensing advice like trick-or-treat candy, and Hawk would make drama out of the smallest details and probably be able to tell precisely what Chris was thinking.

But what would I even say if I called them? How could I get their help without coming clean about everything else?

Maybe, like Chris, I was just used to working alone.

When I got closer to Cabin 3, I noticed immediately that the place was too quiet. Chris had a tendency to hum when he was working, but there wasn't a single off-key note of Taylor Swift to be heard. The peeling trim around the windows and doors was neatly scraped and sanded smooth, just waiting for a fresh coat of paint after our next trip to the hardware store, and Chris's tools had been tidied away, but he hadn't touched the ceiling or anything else inside the cabin.

This should have been a relief. Instead, I thought about Chris's earlier wistful expression, and my stomach twisted guiltily. I didn't want him to feel bad or incompetent, I just wanted him to be safe. He had to understand?—

Chris's panicked cry rent the air, followed by a loud splash , and I took off down the path to the lake at a run. Had he fallen in? Had someone found us?

"Oh my goodness! That was amazing!" Chris shouted a second later. "Ten out of ten. "

"Eight out of ten!" a young female voice called. "You need to point your toes, Derry."

"Three out of ten," a bored male voice corrected. "I could fall in and look cooler."

What the hell ? I stopped short, just out of sight of the dock, and crept forward cautiously, staying behind the tree line. Scanning the scene, I found my protectee, still wearing his green T-shirt and athletic shorts—though both were now damp with perspiration and clinging to him in all sorts of pleasant ways—leaning against the railing of the Wrigley Campground dock in the sunshine, watching as a teenaged boy with long limbs and a smile like Watt Bartlett's hauled himself out of the water.

On the dock near Chris's feet, two teenage girls in bikinis and a smaller, dark-haired boy in shorts were seated cross-legged on beach towels, helping themselves to seltzers out of our soft cooler and snacking on something that looked suspiciously like one of Chris's charcuterie boards.

Where the fuck did he keep coming up with the damn things? Was he magic?

"Three out of ten? Please," Mini-Watt scoffed, rolling his eyes at the other boy. "I'd like to see you do better, Zach."

Zach yawned and leaned back on his hands, tilting his face up to the sun. "No way I'm getting in there. It's practically October. The water's too fucking cold."

"You shouldn't say fuck in front of an adult, Zach," the blonder of the two girls scolded. "For fuck's sake."

It seemed to take Chris a second to realize he was the adult in question. When he did, he shook his head so hard his glasses slid down his nose. "Oh, no, don't mind me," he insisted, pushing them back up. "I don't mind fresh language at all. I'm used to it. You should hear Reed. He's all eff this and eff that. He effs everything ." He paused and added darkly, "Well. Almost everything."

"Reed's your husband, right, Chris?" the darker-haired girl asked eagerly. "I overheard Theo—my uncle's boyfriend—telling Uncle Bennett that you guys were here on your honeymoon."

"Oh, um, yes," Chris agreed. "Reed is my h-husband. Who I'm married to. No doubt about that." His fingers fluttered in an anxious, half-assed impression of jazz hands, and I snickered.

Such a shit liar, but why is it so cute?

"Don't mind her. Vega is a sucker for romance," the blonde girl explained.

"And Mary-Kate thinks romance is for suckers," Vega returned, giving her friend a good-natured shove. She turned back to Chris. "Theo said your husband was handsome . Nearly as handsome as Bennett himself."

Chris smiled. "Oh, yes. Reed's gorgeous."

"And Mr. Lattimer said he was tall," she continued.

"Yeah." Chris's smile grew.

"And Liam Mason said he was grumpy," Mary-Kate chimed in.

"Yea— Wait, what?" Chris frowned. "That's not very nice."

"I think he meant it as a compliment," Vega explained. "Luke's husband is super grumpy, so I think he enjoys grumpy guys."

"Oh." Chris shrugged and smiled, soft and relaxed. "Well, Reed is grumpy. Sometimes." A pause. "Or… okay, maybe often . But he's also very brave. A-and trustworthy. And smart. And funny. And loyal. And thoughtful. He makes me a bagel every morning, even though he doesn't make one for himself, and he insists on me wearing his pajama pants, even though I have my own, and sometimes when I do things for him—just tiny, small things like throwing together dinner—he'll give me a sweet, lopsided smile, like he's really pleased and doesn't know how to show it, and it melts me. Oh, and don't get me started on his forearms because… um…" Chris paused again and cleared his throat. "Anyway."

I gripped the tree in front of me so hard the rough bark dug into my fingers.

Was this part of his husband act? But no, it couldn't be. I knew when he was lying. Anyone with eyes knew it. And this… this was truth.

"You're so lucky," Vega sighed. "He sounds perfect ."

"Perfectly lame," Zach said.

Chris shot him a disappointed look that had Zach closing his mouth quickly, looking a little shamefaced.

"I didn't say Reed was perfect," Chris told Vega. "But if you go into a relationship thinking your partner will be John Ruffian, you're likely to be disappointed. Reed's a wonderful man, but he has his flaws."

Did I?

"Does he?" Vega echoed.

"Heck yeah. He's stubborn—once he gets an idea in his head, it's cemented there. He's overprotective in a way that veers perilously close to bossiness. He's a really terrible singer who makes up his own lyrics," Chris said, but he smiled that soft smile again when he said it, like he didn't really mind it all that much. "And he's loud . He wakes me up every night when he gets into bed because he has to fix the blankets just so."

I stared at him without blinking while some nearby woodland creature inhaled and exhaled in a noisy wheeze.

It took me a second to realize it was me.

Chris woke up every night? He'd known I was there all along?

"And Reed doesn't like to talk about himself much," Chris went on. His shoulders hunched slightly, and he toyed with the hem of his shirt. "What he enjoys, or what he wants, or who he is. It's like… it's like he doesn't want anyone to know him, which is kinda funny because my whole life, all I've wanted was for someone to know me. And, you know, that might make it sound like why do you like this guy ?" He laughed lightly. "But I do. Gosh, I really do. I like being with him. I like who I am when I'm with him. I feel excited. And safe. And seen … mostly. With him, I don't always have to be cheerful even when I'm not, which is…" He glanced up, realized he had the rapt attention of four teenagers, and turned bright red. "…nice?" he concluded weakly.

Chris didn't realize it, but he had my rapt attention, too. How the hell did he know me so well? How did he know me at all ?

Then again, that shouldn't have been a surprise any more than Chris's adaptability was because if I'd learned one thing about my protectee, it was that Chris didn't just see the best in people; he saw people, period . And he treated them as if they were worthy of his kindness and his time, whether they were weed-smoking gardeners in blanket capes, or angry biker-girlfriends, or an orchard owner in love with his land, or… or a grumpy, bossy Division agent who absolutely did not butcher song lyrics, no matter what Chris said.

Listening to him talk, I wondered when I'd gotten so jaded about things. When had I started expecting people to lie and situations to get fucked up? Maybe it was after fifteen years at the Division, or maybe it had started way earlier, when my stepmother left my dad?—

Or maybe it doesn't fucking matter when it started because it's kept you and your protectees alive, hmm?

I blew out a breath.

See? Upside. Down. Land.

It was fucking intolerable.

"I think it's amazing ," Vega breathed. "Wow."

"It's pretty cool," Mary-Kate grudgingly allowed.

"So how'd you two meet?" Mini-Watt demanded. He leaned against the railing close to Chris because, apparently, he didn't understand personal boundaries any better than his dad did.

"Oh. Well. That's a… a funny story, actually." Chris's fingers fluttered, clenching and unclenching so fast I could practically hear them hum. He rubbed the column of his neck. He shifted his weight. "We, uh… we met when I was a… a hardworking charcuterie specialist and Reed was a… a… down-on-his-luck cheese enthusiast," he began before launching into an utterly unbelievable tale involving arsenic baked into cheese straws that I was pretty sure drew heavily from the plot of that television show he liked so much.

I shook my head, torn between horror and amusement.

"So you see, Reed basically saved my life. And now, here we are," Chris croaked. "Honeymooning."

Both girls sighed. Even Mini-Watt looked impressed.

"That's stupid," Zach pronounced, and despite my own concerns about Chris's story, I briefly debated the ethical implications of smacking the shit out of a teenage boy for insulting my husband.

Fake husband.

Fucking protectee.

Whatever .

Fortunately for him, Zach quickly continued. "Who decides to come here for a honeymoon?" He waved a hand to indicate the placid, sunlit lake, the perfectly blue sky, the wild calls of the loons. "It's boring as fuck."

"You think?" Chris smiled, clearly not offended. "I think Copper County's awesome. O'Leary, too. You might take it for granted, living here and all, but it's pretty special to find people this friendly in a place this beautiful. Then again, I'm a pretty boring person."

I couldn't help snorting loudly at that. Luckily, no one heard me.

"You're exactly right about this place," Vega agreed. "I only ever came here for a week or two in the summers growing up, but my uncle and I moved here permanently last fall. I thought I was going to seriously, seriously hate it 'cause it's so small. But honestly, it's been kind of awesome for both of us. Uncle Bennett found Theo earlier this summer, and I got a job and made friends." She slung an arm over Mary-Kate's shoulder. "I kinda wish I'd lived here always."

I turned and leaned my back against the tree, letting the cool lake breeze wash over me as I settled in to listen. It turned out small-town drama was a lot more fun when I wasn't involved in it.

"How nice for you." Zach sounded simultaneously cranky and superior, the way only a teenager could. " I'm leaving the millisecond I graduate. I can't wait."

"Sure," Chris agreed. "If you're not happy, that makes sense."

"See? He gets it," Zach said.

"Assuming you do graduate," Mini-Watt taunted. "And don't wind up arrested for reckless driving or tagging Copper County with your shitty graffiti."

"Zach," Chris said sadly, like he was the kid's long-suffering parent and not someone who'd known him for… what, an hour? "Are you the one who spray-painted that stuff on one of the cabins here?"

Zach's boredom evaporated, and his voice shook with anger. "Fuck off, Derry. Keep your mouth shut."

"Don't get pissy with me," Mini-Watt said. "Just stating facts."

"Well, nobody asked you to share my facts, asshole," Zach shouted.

"Calm down," Chris said. "Hey, no pushing!"

This time when I heard the splash, I grinned. I wasn't sure which of the boys had ended up in the water, and I didn't care. I hoped it was both of them.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," one of the girls—possibly Mary-Kate—yelled.

"I… I didn't do anything." Zach's anger fled as quickly as his boredom had, and he sounded young and unsure. "I pushed Derry."

"Except you missed, dumbass," Mini-Watt said. "Shit. Where'd he go?"

Frowning, I peered around the tree. Counted heads. And realized that one adorable charcuterie specialist was missing.

Literally the damn minute my back was turned.

My vision narrowed, and my chest clenched tight.

"It wasn't my fault," Zach said, even as he toed off his shoes and tore off his shirt. "Mr. Sunday? Chris?"

I was halfway down the dock before Zach jumped, and after leaping over the girls and their towels, I hit the water the instant after he did.

The shock of brutal cold made my muscles seize and my lungs burn. I forced my eyes open, but the water that had looked so clear from above was murky down below. I'd known it was deep, but now I saw that it was unnaturally so, almost like someone had purposely dug it out to make the area safe for diving… which also made it seriously fucking un safe for someone who might at this very moment be drowning.

Christ, where was he ?

Through the thin light filtering down from above, I made out vague, blurry shapes on the lake bed, none of which looked remotely like the man who'd turned my life on its head in the span of five short days.

A tire. A sunken rowboat. A small something that glinted like a pair of glasses?—

Narrowing my eyes on the place where I'd seen the glint, I kicked hard, pushing myself through the water. I quickly saw that the glasses were still attached to one gorgeous and very frightened man. I reached for him, pulled him close, and propelled us upward.

As we broke the surface, I sucked in a huge, coughing breath and heard Chris do the same.

"Mr. Sunday? Is h-he okay?" Zach demanded. He was still bobbing in the water, though his teeth chattered.

"He will be," I said grimly.

I swam us to the shore, bypassing the dock entirely, and laid Chris on his side on the stony beach. "Talk to me," I commanded. "Tell me you're okay. Baby, please."

"S-so b-b-bossy," Chris complained softly, and I nearly sobbed from the relief of it. "I'm f-fine. Just a b-bit… c-cold?" A head-to-toe shiver racked his body. "H-how am I th-this cold, Reed?"

"Mr. Sunday?" Derry called. "You want me to call an ambulance? Or go get my dad?"

"No," I snapped. But because I knew Chris would complain at me about it later, I added in a kinder tone, "Chris will be okay. I'll make sure of it. But thanks for asking. And thanks for going in after him," I told Zach, who'd managed to haul himself onto the dock and was being aggressively wrapped in beach towels by three sets of hands.

I locked eyes with Mini-Watt. "Get him someplace warm and make sure he's okay."

Then I hauled Chris's shivering body into my arms and took the path back to the caretaker cottage at a dead run. Later, I wouldn't recall how I managed to get the door open without setting Chris down or how I managed to extricate him from his clothes while he clung to me, shivering, but somehow I did. I turned on the shower one-handed and, still fully dressed, hauled him with me under the spray.

Chris moaned when the warm water hit him and uncurled like a plant blossoming in the sun.

I pressed my forehead against his. "Thank fuck," I breathed. "Thank fuck."

Chris managed a shaky laugh. "D-don't say that word in front of an adult, Reed."

But I wasn't in any mood yet for laughter. "Did that Zach kid push you in?" I demanded.

I set him gently on his feet, but his knees wobbled, so I wrapped my arms around him and let him rest against me.

Chris pressed his nose to my T-shirt and shook his head. "N-no! Not exactly."

"Then what did happen, exactly?"

"Well. It turns out I still don't know how to swim. And I'm starting to wonder if the ‘swimming instinct' my nonna assured me would kick in when I really needed it might be a myth."

I tugged gently on the back of his hair to make him look at me. Water ran off his glasses in rivulets, streaming down his cheek to his lips. "Are you telling me that you were standing near the edge of the dock when you don't know how to swim?" I shook his shoulders slightly. "What the hell , Chris?" Another thought occurred to me. "And if he didn't push you in, how'd you wind up in the water?"

"Zach and Derry were going to fight. I didn't want either of them to get hurt, so I distracted them. I jumped," he said, for all the world as though this were a reasonable fucking answer.

"You jumped ." Emotion clawed up my chest, clogged my throat. My fingers clamped his shoulders like twin vises. "Please tell me you're kidding."

"Well… no? I didn't think it would be quite that deep, and anyway, my nonna always said?—"

"No." I shook my head forcefully. "No."

I let go of his shoulders, but only so I could run my hands up and down his arms, his chest, his neck and face. His skin was getting warmer, finally. Turning rosy pink all over. And soft… so damn soft. His breathing got heavier with every brush of my fingertips.

"First, shootouts, then bar fights, and now…" My throat clicked as I swallowed. "I don't give a shit what your nonna says, Chris Winowksi. You don't take chances like that?—"

One small hand lifted to my mouth, silencing me. "Chris Winowski doesn't take chances," he whispered, voice barely audible under the thunder of the water. "Not ever. But… I'm thinking maybe Chris Sunday does. Sometimes. When it's important."

I shook my head again, dislodging his fingers. My hands continued tracing the lines of his body, the lean muscles, the fine bones and perfect symmetry. "What the fuck am I going to do with you?" I demanded. It wasn't an angry statement but an honest question. A plea . "I'm losing my mind here. I can't think. I can't focus. I can't stop wanting— Tell me, Chris. Tell me. What am I going to do with you?"

Chris's teeth sank into his lower lip. His big eyes stared up at me like it was Christmas morning and I was his very best present. Then he lifted on his tiptoes and pressed his lips to mine.