Page 43 of No Hope of Rescue

“Whatever you can stuff a flour tortilla with from the fridge.”

He nods and turns down the short path to the Weston homestead, a two- story home with a carved bear out front and stone flagging the contours of a rock garden, which in spring undulates with succulents and cactus.

Kelly’s dream, she once confessed, was to have all her sons and her daughter live within walking distance of one another. With her ten-acre parcel, which belonged to a former horse breeder, she delivered her own dream. Brock’s place is a renovated ranch hand house, and the cabin that Jace and Ryan share, along with Carter’s cabin, are repurposed stables.

In the snow and behind trees, the other cabins remain dark and shapeless. Every windowpane is black. Ross glances out at the buildings. “They still with Codie?”

Brock, fishing keys out of his pocket, shrugs. “I think they’re up with Devon and Luke, storing vehicles and taking care of the cabin.”

Again, there’s that touch at the small of my back.

“See you at six,” Brock calls. The pressure increases, and I step toward the front door.

I shiver. I hate having expectations.

΅

“So,” Brock says, once we’re inside. The door makes a ridiculously loud click as it closes, and we both stand like idiots facing each other. I start to shrug out of my parka, but then he makes a move to help me, and I freeze.

“What are you doing?”

He drops his hands. “Helping you.”

“I got my coat,” I say and then kick myself. What’s wrong with me? He’s just being nice.

There’s a flutter in my stomach and it’s fear. I don’t want things to change between us.

And yet I do. Terribly. I also don’t trust him to see me. Really see me. Or, if he does see me, he won’t like what he sees.

We mill around for a few minutes, opening and closing the refrigerator too many times, trying to figure out what to put in the parfait burritos. Fried zucchini, onions, chorizo, a little quinoa, black beans. There’s half a cup of sour cream back there, and after a quick text, Ross will bring over a brick of cheddar cheese to grate.

Brock leaves to wash his face, but I know he’s also checking the handiwork of the nurses at the hospital. I start cooking up the zucchini and onions. When he returns, he gets what the Westons call the “zap bowls” ready. We’ll be microwaving the other ingredients.

That done, we’re just waiting on Ross to appear. I’m sure he’s having a great time trying to figure out which floral shampoo to use in Kelly and Codie’s shower.

After sitting down heavily on the sofa, Brock draws an arm over his eyes and leans back into the cushions. The evening light on his neck creates shadows along the curve of his face. He looks so vulnerable I want to cry. I fantasize leaning over him and kissing him, his head between my hands. But there’s something I need to ask him, something that has nothing to do with the full feeling deep in my groin right now. Something that keeps him from living the vulnerability I see right now.

“Brock,” I say, sitting down next to him. “Can I ask you a question?”

He opens one eye.

“What happened on that helicopter?”

He lowers his arm and stares at me. “What do you mean?”

“Yesterday.”

“Nothing.” He makes a move to get up, but I put a hand on his knee.

“But you had a flashback in the cockpit. I saw you. You weren’t . . . ”

“What?”

I sigh and cross my arms. “You weren’t there. You weren’t with us.”

His face looks wounded, his eyes dark and depthless, and I immediately regret the question.

He starts to speak when there’s a rap on the door. He rises, takes my hand, and pulls me up. I’m still trying to recover from my blunder, when he pulls me close to him, leans over and kisses me, swiftly, one time. His lips are warm, firm, and soft all at once, and there’s a sudden heat between my legs.