“I realized I wanted to live. Wasn’t sure how I was going to do it, but just giving up … I couldn’t do it,” he said. “So I dried out. Haven’t touched anything in months. Even stopped smoking.”

She opened her mouth, but didn’t speak.

“What?” he asked.

“I can’t be your reason for living, Nick. That won’t work.”

He didn’t answer.

“Can you shift the cuff to the other hand?” Her face was calm, perfectly reasonable. “We’d both be able to sleep on our backs then, with a bit of room.”

“No.”

With lips slammed shut she turned away.

Behind him the camp light continued to glow. He’d have to sit up and drag her halfway across the bed to switch it off. Stuff it. It was a waste of resources, but he enjoyed watching her. The movement of her shoulder beneath the bulky-ass sweater as she breathed. The red of her hair, so dark in the low lighting. He tried to keep his arm light on her, perched on her hip, not pressing down all uncomfortable-like.

When was the last time he’d spooned with someone? Never. Spooning had never been a priority before.

“This isn’t going to work,” she whispered.

“We’ll see,” he whispered back to her. “Are you warm enough?”

She gave a little nod.

No point telling her to go to sleep. Expecting her to relax with him wrapped around her would be sheer stupidity. Her shoulders inched forward, or tried to. His arm didn’t let her get far. Outside the moaning went on and on. You could pretend it was the wind if you tried. It didn’t always work.

“So do you think,” she asked, “if we’d actually met somewhere back in normal times, you’d have been interested in me?”

Nick stopped and thought it over—or at least pretended to. “Yes.”

She muttered something along the lines of “fucking liar” beneath her breath. She was so cute sometimes.

“You’re a smart, good-looking woman,” he said. “I’d have been all over you.”

“Bollocks. I bet you went for the mouth shut, legs open, easygoing lay nine times out of ten.”

He tried not to laugh. “Of course I did. I’m male. But you grow up and your tastes mature.”

“Oh, please. Admit I’m here because I’m the only uninfected female under fifty in the vicinity.”

“You forget your friend Jeanie.”

Roslyn’s sock-covered foot kicked back, catching him in the shin. “Janie.”

“No kicking.” He threw a leg back over hers for good measure. “She’s your friend. What does it matter if I get her name wrong? Said she didn’t interest me.”

No comment.

“Are you jealous?” he asked.

She snorted. “Of what? That you didn’t kidnap someone else?”

He shifted a little closer and sniggered in her ear. “I’d take you as my hostage every time, Roslyn. Promise.”

“Hate you,” she said, sleep blurring the edges of her words.

“I know,” he said soothingly. “I’ve got the scar to prove it.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Roslyn woke up alone in the bed again. Beyond the wide-open bi-fold doors the sun shone bright and birds were singing. Again. Also, an axe was swinging. Took her a while to place the noise, but that’s what it had to be. Having grown up in the city, hearing axes swinging wasn’t exactly the norm. She’d only moved to the country a year back when the job at the school had come up. It had probably saved her life.

The idea of a tree change had intrigued her, but it had been a career move. All part of her plan to work her way to the top and be the big boss librarian in an elite city school by thirty. Her precious life plan had been shot to shit.

The noise broke her out of her pity party.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

It came from somewhere beyond the back door, presumably where Nick was. Next came whistling. Something by AC/DC, maybe? Nothing she recognized.

She rolled out of bed and headed for the bathroom, where she brushed her hair and washed her face and so on. The chain clinked cheerily behind her the whole way—he’d put it back on her as she slept.

God how she hated this. Him touching her, the chain, all of it.

The scent of him lingered, reminding her she’d woken up once or twice during the night and each time he’d been there, plastered to her back with an arm thrown over her. It made for quite the desensitizing program. The second time she woke, her cheek had been mooshed up against his bicep, skin damp with sweat. No need for so many blankets with him right there, invading her space and treating her like his teddy bear.

She didn’t want to cuddle. Not with him.

On the kitchen bench her breakfast was laid out for her. All knives, fire pokers and anything else she might have thought to use as a weapon were absent, as per the usual. She should dig his heart out with a soup spoon. Nice and blunt and messy.

She slathered her still-warm floury roll thing in jam and ate it. Because of course he’d been baking. Proving himself to be an excellent provider wasn’t going to convince her. No matter the buttery brilliance of the breakfast.

What to do with herself for the day? The shelf of dusty classics sat on the wall, taunting her. If only she had her glasses. Already she missed her books. A big fat copy of War and Peace sat staring back at her. It wasn’t like she didn’t have the time to read it again.

The back door stood open and her chain reached just far enough to let her stick her head through. He’d moved the pickup, likely to get it out of the way so he could bring firewood inside.