I’m about to give in to the urge for a little tug when I stop myself and turn off the water instead. I’m going to be a good boy. No touching. I want to know what St. Clare’s reward is more than I’m interested in anything else. I might have a giant target on my head, but Margot and Elle are safe, we’re currently in the middle of fucking nowhere Washington, and some things are more pressing than figuring out who wants to kill you.

I’d argue that St. Clare’s mouth wins in importance against just about anything.

I towel off, realize I have literally no clothes to wear after dumping my jeans, T-shirt, and hoodie onto the small two-seater table for Lars to deal with, and then settle for wrapping my towel around my hips.

I eat, brush my teeth—thank you to Lars for remembering to buy these supplies and to me for remembering to bring them with us—then … wait.

And hope like hell that St. Clare wasn’t fucking with me.

CHAPTER THIRTY

ST. CLARE

“How long are you going to make him wait?” Lars asks.

Which is a good question because I’m suddenly getting cold feet over doing this again, but that doesn’t distract me from how much I want to do this again. I’m a mess of contradictions, and I’m struggling to have anything make sense in my head.

“Forever?”

He calls my bluff. “Liar.”

“No, but I’m actually starting to think this is a bad idea.”

“That would have been helpful at this time yesterday.” He shrugs, finally getting the first sparks of the fire going. “At what point do you say fuck it because everything looks bad and you deserve to take the small amount of good you have? If that’s fooling around with the guy who tried to kill you, then so be it.”

“You’re on board now?”

“Oh, no, I still think it’s a stupid idea.” He pokes at the simmering flame. “And I fully intend for us to find a way out of this mess, but I don’t blame you for wanting to have some fun in the meantime.”

“What about you?”

“I have my horoscopes.” Then he pumps his eyebrows at me. “And I’m hoping to get Perry on my good side so he’ll introduce me properly to Arlie.”

I huff. “She is inhumanly good-looking.”

Lars turns his poking stick over in his hands. “I guess she is? Mostly, she looks like the type of woman who can handle herself and isn’t down for putting up with shit.” Then my best friend, who is the least romantic guy I’ve ever met, lets out a dreamy sigh. “I’d love to challenge her to target practice. I bet she’d kick my ass.”