“How long until we get there?” Griselda asked as she buckled herself back into the red truck.

“Forty minutes, give or take,” he said, wincing as he sat down.

“You’re in pain.”

“I’ll take another Advil. I can rest once we get there.”

“Want me to drive?” she asked, fishing the Advil out of the Target bag and opening it.

He shook his head, taking the two brown pills from her palm and swallowing them without water. “Naw. I’ll be okay.”

“Okay.”

He glanced at his seat belt, then back at the windshield, clenching his jaw and reaching forward to turn the key in the ignition.

“You’re not buckled,” she said, and it occurred to her that twisting his torso to grab the belt would likely hurt his side.

“I’m fine,” he said.

“No, you’re not. Let me help you,” she said, unbuckling her own seat belt and sliding across the seat until her hip was flush with his. As she looked down at their jean-clad thighs side by side, she heard his almost-soundless gasp, and it made her heart speed into a double-time beat. Her eyes slid up his chest to his face, which was set stone hard, staring straight ahead, his posture stiff and muscles rigid. His fingers were curled tightly around the steering wheel, the whites of his scabby knuckles stark and straining, like he was bracing for something.

Or someone.

My God, she wondered. Do I do this to him?

“Holden,” she whispered.

He didn’t turn to her. He swallowed deliberately, his nostrils flaring a little.

With her outside hand, she reached across his chest, turning into him, her breasts brushing his shirt, her ear close to his lips as she leaned around his body. She was close enough to hear a ragged breath drawn and held as she leaned over him. Close enough to catch the flutter of his eyelids out of the corner of her eye as her left nipple grazed his chest and hardened.

She pulled the belt over him, leaning back to buckle it. The echo of the loud click faded, but she stayed frozen in place. The entire space felt charged—electric and hot—like their T-shirts were the only thing preventing incineration, and if their skin happened to touch, they’d both go up in flames.

“Gris,” he said his voice low, his face tense. “If you don’t move over . . .”

“Oh,” she murmured, breathless with longing.

He finally bent his neck and looked down at her, his dark and stormy eyes close, so close, slamming directly into hers.

“Please,” he begged her.

Her tongue darted out to wet her dry lips, and his eyes dropped to her mouth. He closed his eyes, swallowing tightly.

“P-please, Gris,” he whispered. “I’m so fucking weak.”

The desperation in his tone moved her to action, and she quickly scooted back over to her seat, reaching for her belt and buckling it quickly, staring straight ahead as he started the truck and backed out of the parking lot without another word.

With the silence between them tense and brooding, Griselda rolled down her window to distract herself and rested her elbow on the windowsill as they left Martinsburg behind.

That morning, when she kissed his neck, she’d felt his erection straining against his jeans, but he’d made no move to kiss her, even though she was making a move on him. Embarrassed that she’d been so forward, she promised not to kiss him again, and he’d graciously laughed it off. But she couldn’t seem to stop reaching for him—while they were in Target, she’d wrapped her arms around him again, arching into him. She could tell that she physically affected him, but again, he hadn’t taken advantage of the situation. In fact, he’d pushed her away and left her alone to shop. And now, yet again, she could tell that his body responded to her closeness, but again he pushed her away, practically begging her to stop touching him.

Though she felt strongly that he cared for her and wanted to spend some time with her, she could see that he was holding himself back, almost painfully, from touching her. They’d slept next to each other, sure, but that was probably more a celebration of their reunion—a throwback to when they’d been kids together. He certainly hadn’t made a move on her, and heck, she’d been in his bed. He could have.

She sighed, thinking about the daisy on the kitchen table, and Gemma’s face flashed through her head. He calls out your name in his sleep . . . His girlfriend . . . I been with him six months.

That must be it, she thought. He’s attracted to me, like he’s probably attracted to nine women in ten, but he’s committed to his girlfriend.

Then why is he going to a remote cabin to spend several weeks alone with you? her hopeful heart demanded.

Because you’re childhood friends who endured a painful experience together, reasoned her head. Because he needs closure just as much as you do.

Friendship.

Closure.

Desperately she thought back on the past two days, but despite their attraction to each other, he hadn’t said or done anything to indicate that he would cross the line from a cherished friendship to . . . something more. He wanted to know what had happened to her, he wanted her to know what had happened to him, he wanted to know if she’d lived a happy life. But, no matter how much she wanted to add subtext to his words, in reality there probably wasn’t any.

He held her hand easily . . . as he always had.

He lay beside her easily . . . as he always had.

But, while she was foolishly hoping, deep in her heart, that he could see her and love her as a woman, the reality was that he was only seeing her and loving her as his resurrected foster sister, his dear childhood friend.

She clenched her eyes shut, wincing in embarrassment and disappointment.

Despite Gemma, he is attracted to you, said the devil on her left shoulder. You could push things. Over eighty tally marks says he’ll eventually fold.

But he won’t belong to you, protested the angel on her right. Besides, if you care about him, you won’t do that to him. He has a girlfriend. He’s obviously trying to stay committed to her. If you truly care for him, you’ll support him. You’ll do everything you can to help him be good.

She glanced at his beautiful face, looking past the black-and blue, to find the boy she’d loved in the man sitting beside her. Maybe he couldn’t be her man, but he wanted to be her friend, and if that’s all he could offer, then that’s all she would take.

***

Holden turned down the access road, looking for the reflective lights that would indicate Quint’s hidden driveway. Relieved that the uncomfortable drive on the bumpy, unpaved dirt road was brief, he pulled in front of a log cabin set in the middle of a vast and quiet clearing bursting with wildflowers, and cut the engine.

The cabin itself was small, made of light wood logs and trimmed with green shutters. It had a covered porch, where two rocking chairs rocked idly in the midday breeze on either side of the green-painted front door.

Holden had been here a couple of times before, joining Quint and Clinton for hunting weekends, and he knew that inside there was a common room with a small kitchen, dining table, woodstove, futon, and two chairs. In the back of the cabin was a tiny bedroom with a full-size bed and a no-frills, utilitarian bathroom. A rustic ladder led from the common room to a loft, where there were two twin mattresses for extra company. Though the whole space was probably only 800 square feet, Quint occasionally rented it out for up to six guests, but Holden wasn’t sure how six people could move around in the snug space.

There were no electrical wires—the stove and fridge ran on propane, and a generator hardwired to the small dwelling provided enough power for a microwave, a few lights and a couple of outlets. It wasn’t a fancy spot, but Quint and Clinton kept it in good shape. Wondering what Griselda thought of it, he turned to look at her for the first time since she’d buckled his seat belt.

She was staring at the cabin through the windshield. “It’s like a doll’s house . . . or an enchanted cottage. I almost expected it to be made of candy.”

He couldn’t help grinning, because of course Griselda would romanticize an old hunting cabin into something charming and whimsical like an enchanted doll’s house.

Looking back through the windshield, he saw it through her eyes: small and charming, like something out of a fairy tale.

“I guess,” he said.

“I like it,” she said softly. She unbuckled her seat belt but stayed put.

Since she’d leaned over him to buckle his seat belt, and he’d warned her that he was on the brink of kissing her, she’d kept her distance. The way she’d scooted back across that seat like her ass was on fire told him something too: he was right about her not wanting to jump into anything with him, and he was right about practicing patience and self-control so he wouldn’t scare her away.

Still, a thread of hope wouldn’t be denied entirely. She had kissed his neck this morning, hadn’t she? Yes. And she had wrapped her arms around his neck in Target, pushing her body against his. She was attracted to him—of that he was certain. But she’d also told him that she was confused. And he didn’t want to add to her confusion. He wanted her to be comfortable with him. Time and patience, he reminded himself, reaching down to unbuckle his belt too.

He turned to her. “Well, I guess we should . . .”

“Yep. I’ll get the bags and groceries. Why don’t you just go rest a bit?”

“I can help—”

“Nope. I insist. Go rest. Get a nap. I’ll wake you up for hot dogs in an hour,” she said, offering him a little smile.

“You sure? I feel a little bad leaving you to do everything.”

“Do I look like I mind?” she teased.

You look beautiful. You look amazing. You look like the girl of my dreams.

“Nope,” he said. “You look as strong as that little girl who somehow made it across the Shenandoah.”

She flinched, sucking a deep breath into the back of her throat. Her eyes widened, stricken, and her lips parted with a gasp. “Holden—”

He realized his mistake immediately. They hadn’t talked about her escape yet, and he saw the immensity of her guilt change her face as he mentioned it so offhandedly. “I don’t mean that in any bad way, Gris. That’s just the last way I remember you.”

Her lip trembled. “I should have . . . I should have stayed. I should have turned back,” she said, her eyes welling with tears. “I’m sorry. Holden, I’m so damn sorry. I shouldn’t have run.”

“N-no,” he said, reaching for her shoulders and making her face him with a small jerk. “D-don’t you ever say that to me. Not ever again. You got away. Do you have any idea how grateful I am that you escaped? I am going to thank God every day for the rest of my life that you got away and lived and found me again.” Tears streamed down her face, and he felt his own eyes burning in communion with hers as his fingers curled into her shoulders. “I told you to run, and you ran. You ran, and I’m g-glad, Gris. I’m happy you made it. I’m n-n-not s-s-sorry and I’m n-n-not—”

“Breathe,” she said, tilting her head to the side until her cheek rested against the back of his left hand. She closed her eyes, letting go of the breath she’d been holding.

Holden watched her, savoring the touch of her soft cheek pressed against his skin. It took every last reserve of his strength not to run his hands down her arms and pull her against his chest. But he didn’t. He’d wait for her. He’d wait forever if that’s what it took for her to invite his touch, to want it.

Finally she opened her eyes, taking a deep breath and smiling at him. A relieved and happy laugh made her shoulders shake a little as she stared back at him like something magical had just happened, and Holden would swear that, from now until the end of his life, he’d never see anything more beautiful than Griselda smiling back at him in that moment.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her tears still streaming. “Thank you so much, Holden. Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For forgiving me.”

He shook his head. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

“There is,” she whispered, turning her face just a little to press her lips to the back of his hand.

“Gris,” he ground out, the sound painful and pleading.

She looked up, nodding at him, as though remembering herself, then righted her head as he quickly slipped his hands from her shoulders.

Taking a deep, ragged breath, she used her palms to wipe her face and turned to him. “Doll’s house?”

“Yeah,” he said, fishing the keys out of his jeans and handing them to her. “You go on in.”

She nodded, letting herself out of the truck. And Holden watched her go, begging God and every angel in heaven for more than just a month with her.

***

Holden was lying down in the back bedroom, so Griselda took her time placing their clothes on an empty shelf in the linen closet between the bedroom and bathroom, and unpacking the groceries. Quint had purchased a few luxuries for them—in addition to milk, mac and cheese, and a loaf of bread, he’d included a dozen eggs, some fresh berries, a package of chicken legs, and a box of frozen hamburgers. Rifling through the kitchen cabinets, Griselda also found some basics, like flour, sugar, cooking oil, and spices. She grinned, thinking that she could dip the chicken legs in beaten egg, then dredge them in flour, and fry them up. It wouldn’t be the fanciest feast, but it had to be better than hot dogs, and if memory served, Holden loved fried chicken.

Pulling the canister of flour down on the counter, she rummaged through a cabinet beside the propane stove for a frying pan. Finding one, she placed it victoriously on the stove. She felt like singing, like dancing, like living. Like living.

Looking out the window over the sink, at the meadow of sweet wildflowers, she paused, breathing deeply and acknowledging the brutal and massive weight that Holden had just willingly and lovingly lifted from her shoulders. For most of her life, she’d felt guilty about two terrible things that she’d done: getting into Caleb Foster’s truck, and running across the Shenandoah River without Holden. And now, in the space of minutes, he’d relieved some of her burden.

Leaving the frying pan, flour, and chicken for a moment, she crossed the small living room and headed out the front door and into the field. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so lighthearted that she could take pleasure in something trivial or beautiful, so tears fell from her eyes as she leaned down to pull bluets, buttercups, black-eyed Susans, and white aster into a wild and colorful bouquet. Bringing the warm blooms to her nose, she breathed deeply, then looked around at the field of flowers, the trees in the distance, and the bright sun shining down on her slick, upturned face.

“Thank you,” she whispered, watching the drifting clouds break up the clear blue of the summer sky with thick puffs of cheerful white.

Turning back to the house with her bouquet, she wished there was a way to love Holden how he wanted to be loved, instead of the way she did. But the truth she was forced to acknowledge was that she had never seen Holden as a brother, and he’d always been more than a friend. She loved him in a way that was necessary, not luxurious. She loved him like the tide loves the sand—trapped together, one lost without the other, pushed and pulled, but never ripped apart. She loved him in a deep and singular way, almost as though God had crafted one heart in heaven, then split it between Holden’s body and hers, fating her to a never-ending longing to be with him, or a fractional life without him.

She sat down in one of the rocking chairs on the small porch, propping her feet up on the railing and wondering if he felt this way about her, or about Gemma, or about anyone at all. And was he capable of loving someone like this? He’d stayed with a monster like Caleb Foster until he was seventeen, then he’d returned to West Virginia, the site of their abduction and captivity. At some point, he’d started working a job he didn’t appear to care very much about, lived in an apartment that was one step above a hovel, and beat up other men for money. And the tally marks on his arm. She winced, thinking about them, about the stark and vicious loneliness that would make him keep looking so desperately for someone to assuage it.

Swallowing over the lump in her throat, she closed her eyes and let the warm afternoon breeze fan her cheeks and the scent of wildflowers soothe her aching heart. He’d given her the most incredible gift today in easing her terrible regret. Desperate to return that kindness, she vowed—again—not to get between Holden and Gemma. If Gemma filled the hole inside Holden, Griselda was grateful for her and would do nothing to jeopardize or endanger his happiness.

***

Waking up to the smell of fried chicken and the sound of singing, Holden kept his eyes tightly closed, convinced that he was still dreaming, because he had no one to make him fried chicken, and the singing voice sounded strangely like Griselda’s.

“I’m living in a kind of daydream . . . I’m happy as a queen.”

Someone was singing “The Very Thought of You,” an old song that Griselda’s grandmother had loved more than any other song.

“And foolish, though it may seem . . . To me? That’s everything.”

Sometimes, when Caleb Foster had left for Rosie’s and they lay side by side in the darkness, she would sing it to him, and he still remembered every word.

“The mere idea of you . . .”

“The longing here for you,” whispered Holden, blinking his eyes to open them, and looking around the tiny bedroom in confusion before the events of the last two days came rushing back to him.

He was in Quint’s cabin.

Griselda must be making fried chicken.

And Griselda was singing.

“You’ll never know how slow the moments go ‘til I’m near to you . . .”

Staring up at the ceiling, his eyes watering with tears, he smiled. This was the stuff of dreams: his amber-haired, blue-eyed girl coming back from the dead and banishing every shred of devastating loneliness from his life with her warmth and stories and off-key voice singing poetry while she fried chicken in the tiny kitchen of a remote hunting cabin. Too fantastic to be true. Too heartbreaking to be real.

Sitting up carefully, he was relieved to find that his nap had chased away a good bit of the aching in his hip and chest, and even his face wasn’t throbbing very much anymore. His heart was a different story.

Now that they were here together, all alone, out in the middle of nowhere, it was going to be harder than ever to keep himself from advancing on her. Glancing down at his hand resting on his thigh, he felt the impression of her lips pressed against his skin and groaned softly. The next time she did something like that, he was just going to come out and say it: “Unless you want my hands on your body, you need to stop doing that.” Then she could skitter away, but at least she’d have been duly warned about his intentions.

“I see your face in every flower, your eyes in stars above. . .”

This girl. Everything about this girl made him want, made him long, made him yearn to change his life, start his life, finally live his life after a decade of going through the motions. He wanted to get a better job to take care of her. He wanted to stop fighting because she disapproved of it. He wanted enough money to have every tally mark lasered from his arm. He wanted some sort of guarantee that she’d never, ever leave him again. And he wanted all of it now. Yesterday. Ten years ago, and every day since.

Standing up slowly, he let his body settle into an upright position before taking his time crossing the hall to the bathroom and then heading out into the common room.

She stood at the stove with her back to him, her feet bare, her hair in a ponytail, the mouthwatering smell of fried chicken filling the entire cabin with goodness. Holden leaned against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest, a grin taking over his face as he watched her.

“It’s just the thought of you—the very thought of you, my love,” she sang, using a fork to transfer a golden leg to a paper towel–covered plate.

As she reached forward to turn off the stove, some of the leftover grease in the frying pan spat up at her and burned her wrist.

“Ow!” she yelped. “Damn it!”

With a sudden rush of adrenaline, Holden crossed the kitchen in two strides. He turned on the faucet and grabbed her arm to thrust her wrist under the cold stream. He held it there, wincing at the red blotch developing on her white skin. When he lifted his eyes to hers, she was staring at him with a surprised, curious expression.

“It’s just a little burn.”

He shrugged, still holding her arm, staring down at the burn.

“You were asleep,” she said.

“You were singing.”

“Too loud?”

“No.”

“You remember that song?”

“I remember.”

He slid his palm down her arm to cradle her wrist from below.

“The stove’s still on,” she said.

Without dropping her hand, he took a step closer to her, reached around her waist with his free hand, and flicked the burner off.

“I made fried chicken,” she said softly, her cheeks flushed.

“I can smell it.”

“You like fried chicken. I mean . . . you must have mentioned it to me a hundred times when we were—”

“It’s still my favorite.”

They were both silent for a few seconds, and Holden knew he should drop her hand and step away from her, but he couldn’t. She’d hurt herself doing something kind for him, and it just about shredded his heart.

Just another moment, he told himself. A few more seconds touching her and then I’ll move away.

“Sorry about the singing,” she whispered, unmoving, her breath kissing his throat.

He jerked his neck to face her, his thumb curling into her palm, his eyes searching hers for mercy.

“I loved it,” he murmured.

She stepped forward, closing the distance between them, her lips parting, her breasts grazing his chest through his T-shirt as she stared up at him.

“Holden, I . . .”

Every breath she took seemed to draw him closer to her, as if she was breathing him, not air. He leaned forward, into her, his free hand reaching for hers.

“G-Gris . . .”

Her eyes, dark blue and churning, flicked to his lips, lingered there, then slid back up his face and seized his.

His self-control snapped.

After all, he was only human.