“Ouch.”

I’m touching her again.

She moans, but not in a good way.

Not the word or noises a man hopes to conjure in the woman he’s been obsessing over for months.

“It stings.”

Yeah. Those aren’t good words, either.

“It doesn’t sting,” I argue, just for the sake of something to say. I’m sure it stings like hell.

“How do you know? Did you walk for hours in heels through the rainforest? No, you’re a man. You get to wear sensible shoes all the time. What are you putting on me anyway?”

“Arrowroot,” I mutter as I use my pocket knife to slice off another piece of the plant. It took me all of a minute to find some after I took a piss. “It’s native to South America and the Caribbean, and I thought I saw some earlier. It can be applied as an ointment. Aloe would be better but arrowroot can be used in a pinch. It’s also a natural cure for colic and can be used as a mild laxative.” I look at her and go on. “Should you have a problem with that.”

Her eyes widen. “I’m good. I’ll stick with the ointment, thank you very much.” She winces and tries to pull her delicious leg out of my grasp, but I hold tight to her calf. “How do you know all this?”

I let go and move around to her other foot where she’s worn blisters through and some have started bleeding. “I was in the Army.”

“Really?”

I’m crouched by her feet, trying to see her sores through the dimming light. We can’t afford to use up what battery life we have left in our phones. I don’t let her go but look up her bare legs to her curvy figure and find her face, shadowed by the darkness. “Really. Is that so hard to believe?”

She shrugs and her perfect pink lips tip on one side. “Given your love for musicals, it might be a tad bit shocking.”

I give her my best glare.

“Oklahoma?” she asks.

I frown. “I’m not from Oklahoma.”

This time she smiles so big I can see it through the dim light. “No. The musical. Do you like it? Maybe you’re a South Pacific kind of guy given your service to our country.” I ignore her and go back to work on her feet. “West Side Story? The Sound of Music? Fiddler on the Roof?”

“‘Even a poor man is entitled to some happiness,’” I quote before I blow on her little toe that’s mangled with an ugly blister and feel goosebumps crawl up her bare leg. I lean back but don’t take my hand off her ankle. “My mother taught theatre at my high school. And before you ask, the answer is no. I never got into it, but I did have to sit through every play she ever put on until I left for college.”

Her face softens. “Well, that’s a side of you I never imagined. Gabe Blackburn—a reluctant bystander of the arts.”

“Does it feel any better?” I ask, ignoring her last comment.

“Yes. Thank you.”

I move and sit next to her, leaving a good twelve inches between us. Since I’m in hell, I might as well sit close enough where I could touch her even if I know I shouldn’t. It’s the universe teasing me—tempting me—with the woman I’ve done everything possible to stay away from. I lean my head back on the wall and pretend I’m not stuck in hell—or Nicaragua—wondering what I did to deserve such torture.

I’m a good business owner. My employees are compensated well above industry average. I give them more vacation time than most and I’m generous when it comes to bonuses. Everyone has choices when it comes to careers and I do everything I can to make my company one of the most sought after to work for. I don’t mind offering six weeks of vacation to everyone because when they’re at work, they’re beasts. My increasing bottom line and market share over the last five years is all the proof I need. I might be a workaholic but it’s all I know. I visit my parents regularly. I’m philanthropic. I donate blood. And I do my best not to hit squirrels when they run out in front of my car.

For the life of me, I can’t figure out what I’ve done to deserve this torment.

Of course, she keeps talking, her perfect soft voice making me hungry in a way that has nothing to do with the pains in my stomach. “What did you do in the Army? And I’m not trying to make small talk—it would be great if you could reassure me by telling me you’ve been trained to find your way out of the middle of nowhere.”

I take a breath and feel around on the floor beside me until I find the package of M&M’s. Tearing open the top, I shake a few into my hand before holding out the package for her. She still hasn’t eaten anything. When she takes the package, brushing my hand with her fingers, I give her my condensed bio. “Went to West Point and majored in IT. When I did my time in the Army, I started as an officer, but applied for Ranger school and got in.”

Every minute move she makes hits me like a roar. Her breathing, chewing, the crinkling of the candy wrapper.

She clears her throat. “I guess if I’m going to be lost in Central America, I’m lucky to have you.”

Her glowing praise doesn’t match her tone—worried and tight with stress. “We’ll find our way out, Lillian. I promise.”

“Do you always carry a gun?”

“Not always. But when I’m here, yes.”

She shifts and when she goes on, I can tell she’s turned to face me in the dark. “We flew commercial. How did you get a gun?”

I roll my head toward her voice. “Sergio. I’ve contracted with him on previous trips and he always provides me a weapon. He knows my background. He was always solid in the past. I’m not sure what happened today.”

She fidgets, rustling in the dark, the floorboards creaking under her. Even through the sounds of the forest, I hear her sniff.

“Lillian?”

She sniffs again.

My voice becomes demanding. “Lillian.”

“I’m sorry.” Her sweet voice is shaky and, fuck me, I think she might be crying. “Sergio was a sweet man. I got to know him over the last week and even though he spoke English, he was chattier in his native language. He had a family—a wife and two small children.” She sniffs even louder and lets out a choked sob, apologizing again. “I’m sorry. I think it’s all finally sinking in. He showed me pictures of his kids—they’re so small. His family lost him and they probably don’t even know it yet.” Another two sobs escape, tearing through my insides like a jagged knife. I hear her start to move when she mutters, “I need a tissue.”

I reach for her and find her bare bicep, wrapping my hand all the way around it. “Wait. Don’t get up. You’ll get your sores infected.”

“I’m so sorry. I’m a mess. I need to blow my nose.”

I find myself doing something I know I shouldn’t. Maybe it’s being around her so much over the past week, or being stranded together, or sharing this awful fucking experience, but I can’t sit here, listen to her cry, and not touch her. “Come here.”

She argues as she cries. “No, I’m fine. I’ll get myself together—I promise. I just need to blow my nose.”

“You can use my shirt.” I shift to put my arm around her stiff body, pulling her into my chest for no reason other than I must be a masochist, because if the twelve inches separating us was torture, this will be the end of me. I undo the top three buttons of my shirt to loosen it. “Here, wipe your face. Feel free to blow your nose, it’s not like we aren’t filthy anyway.”

She continues to cry and her voice raises an octave. “I’m not going to blow my nose on your shirt.”

I wrap my other arm around her and snake my hand into her hair, lowering my voice. “It wouldn’t be the worst thing that’s happened today.”

This makes her cry harder. Dammit, I’m shit with words.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper and press my face into her soft hair. “Sergio was a good man. Today took us all by surprise. I promise to find Sergio’s family and do something for them. I don’t know what, but something.”

Another few sobs escape as she nods against my chest, fisting my shirt to her face.

“Shh,” I whisper into her hair. “I promise I’ll get you out of here. You’ll be okay. Don’t think about Sergio right now.”

She nods and we don’t say anything more about Sergio or being lost in Central America or musicals. As we sit here listening to the symphony of the jungle, Lillian starts to relax and gives me her weight.

Just when I think she’s asleep and I’m forcing myself to think of dead cats instead of the woman in my arms, she whispers, “Gabe?”

“Hmm?” I lean my head back on the wall and close my eyes. She wipes her eyes on my shirt again and I’m pretty sure her nose, too.

“How did you get the scar on your hand?”

I pull in a big breath. “Afghanistan. We got trapped in a shelter and were trying to dig our way out when a grenade was thrown in.”

She tenses in my arms and says nothing for many moments.

“Thank you for being sweet,” she whispers. “Nothing like this has ever happened to me before.”

Hell.

As long as I’m here, I might as well settle in and enjoy it.

I pull her tighter to me. “You’re welcome.”