Still, the thing didn’t look quite as scary in the light of day.

“Uh, hey, beast,” she said, leaning way back and feeling a bit ridiculous for (1) being afraid of something that probably didn’t weigh as much as her boots and (2) talking to an animal as if it were a person.

The cat’s only response to her query was a few flicks of its tail at the tip.

It wasn’t a pretty cat. The black-and-brown fur matted into terrible tangles, and the tufts surrounding its face stuck out at odd angles. Alabaster whiskers stood out against the dark fur. An urn of white covered its chest, disappearing into the underbelly only to reemerge on the tips of the two forefeet.

She spied a coffeepot on the counter just as she realized that they had no groceries. No coffee.

Duh.

Really, this whole Square One bullshit was the absolute worst. How had she let herself end up with this crazy-ass therapist freezing her butt off in the middle of nowhere? Maybe the drugs and booze had damaged her brain? Okay, that was probably a scientific given, but that didn’t explain why she had agreed to work with Olivia, the total weirdo who could not fake an orgasm, by the way. The woman sucked at acting.

Zeke probably had coffee—good, stout coffee that made hair grow on one’s chest. One of her former directors had once said that, which she guessed meant the coffee was up to standard.

Zeke had been a bright spot in a dark hole. He wasn’t the sort of guy she was attracted to—a rough-around-the-edges sort with calloused hands and jeans that were worn from actual labor rather than distressing from the hand of a fashion designer. Solid with a dark beard and shaggy hair, he’d showed back up last night with cold bottles of iced tea and a Tupperware full of delicious chili made of venison. He’d built a roaring fire, set an air freshener on the table, and brought them sleeping bags. When she’d later snuggled into the depths of the flannel-lined bag, she’d imagined it smelled of him—woodsmoke, Breath Savers, and something homey and foreign. Not that she was into him or anything. He was just . . . nice.

“What are you doing?” Olivia asked from behind her.

“Staring at this cat.”

“Why?”

“Because I stumbled in here thinking about coffee, and then I realized we don’t have coffee. Or anything else for that matter. And he was up there plotting our demise, so I thought I should keep an eye on him.” She turned to look at Olivia, who looked . . . like she hadn’t spent the night on the couch in a sleeping bag. Every hair was in place, her skin was dewy, and her eyes weren’t remotely puffy. “How do you even look like that?”

Olivia tilted her head and blinked. Like a doll. Like a weird robot doll. “Like what?”

“My hair’s snarled, and I look like the walking dead.” She pulled at the bun she’d twisted her hair into the night before. Half of it was hanging around her face. She may or may not have drooled, and the constant waking during the night ensured the skin beneath her eyes was shadowed.