Page 128 of Reckless Obsession

“No.” I pause. “Though I am beginning to see the appeal.”

“You’re insane.”

“No shit.”

He looks out through the windshield, visibly considering whether getting out of the car and walking back to the Armani Grand would be more satisfying than continuing this conversation.

Then he turns back to me.

“Fine,” he mutters at last, drawing out the word as if it costs him something. “But if this cabin has spiders, I swear to God, Tristan—”

“No spiders.”

“If there are creaky floorboards and no signal, I will assume you’re setting me up for a horror movie.”

“There’s a generator. And Wi-Fi.”

“And if this cabin is ugly, I’m leaving.”

“It isn’t ugly.”

“If there are bugs, I’m leaving.”

“There are no bugs.”

“That sounds like a lie.”

“It is not.” I open my door. “Are you coming?”

Maksim stares at me for another long second. Then he huffs, pushes his door open, and climbs out.

“I hate that I’m agreeing to this,” he mutters as he shuts it. “If I’m going to be kidnapped, I want snacks.”

We walk into the store side by side, the awkward tension still humming between us, but underneath it there’s something warmer.

And for the first time in a week, the tight knot in my chest eases just a little.

Chapter 24

MAKSIM

What am I doing?

I’ve asked myself that question about a hundred times today, ever since Tristan fucking Sinclair used those soft eyes and that even softer voice to lure me into this emotionally torturous field trip.

I hate this version of him.

The quiet one. The gentle one. The one who looks at me as if I’m something worth being careful with. It’s dangerous, because it leaves me thinking stupid things like maybe he likes me enough to come find me.

Maybe he cares enough to drag me out of my hotel room and bring me to some mysterious cabin in the woods instead of letting me keep hiding from him like a socially dysfunctional raccoon with access to a black card. Which, unfortunately, is exactly what I have been doing.

Speaking of questionable decisions, the cabin comes into view just as the last hour of silence in the car stretches past uncomfortable and straight into unbearable.

It sits back among the trees, dark wood and stone, with a wide porch, warm light spilling from the windows like an invitation I didn’t ask for. Small string lights wrap around a few nearby trunks, glowing softly against the deepening blue of the evening. Nothing about it is excessive. It’s beautiful, obviously, because Tristan appears constitutionally incapable of owning anything that isn’t. But it looks cozier than I expected.

The kind of place where people either fall in love or lose their minds.

Possibly both.