“Storage?” I ask.

He nods toward the closet.

“Right.”

So basically, I’ll be keeping everything but clothes and necessities stuffed in the cab of my truck. Great.

“I’ll leave you two to get settled in. We’ll be meeting in the backyard after supper—access available via the slider in the living room or the door through the garage. It’s Beast’s night for cooking and I’ll take care of it tomorrow night to give y’all a chance to get used to the routine.”

“Mighty kind of you.” The words come out a bit more sarcastic than I intended, but it doesn’t seem to faze Jude.

He gives us a lazy smile. “I aim to please. Later, babies.”

He disappears down the hall.

I turn toward Reese, but she’s already gone, walking down the hall toward the front door without a word.

A couple hours later, I’ve parked my truck on the street, eaten a surprisingly decent bowl of jambalaya, and suffered through some awkward-as-hell conversation.

“No drama in this household, babies. I know there’s some tension here, but I don’t want any theatrics unless they’ve been specifically orchestrated by yours truly.” He looks over at me. “I heard about you and Abby Summers. I don’t want that kind of crazy affecting my house or my business. She’s the kinda lady who’d put a hole in your tire and whack off your member.”

I grit my teeth and agree to keep his house drama-free.

Reese doesn’t say anything.

In fact, she doesn’t speak at all the entire time we eat.

After the terrible time that is dinner, I bring in some of my clothes and other necessities—things I’ll need to keep inside—and try to avoid Reese.

A thump pulls me from my thoughts as she attempts to heft a box into the closet.

It’s not a large box, but she struggles to lift it up above her head.

“Here.” The word is clipped. I reach over her, shoving it onto the shelf. It’s heavier than I thought. “What’s in this thing?” I give it one last push and it slides into place.

“Books.” Her voice is quiet.

“You can’t keep those somewhere else? There’s barely any room in here as it is.”

Her back is to me, the line of her shoulders tense. I’m suddenly aware I’m blocking her in. I step back.

“Sorry,” I mutter. I focus on putting clothes into the top drawer of the dresser but my eyes are drawn back over. She’s hasn’t moved. Still staring into the small closet like it has all the answers to our problems. Or maybe she’s trying to determine if she can use it to flee into Narnia. I know the feeling.

Her hair is pulled from her face and for the first time I stop and look at her. Really look at her, in her cutoff shorts and plain red T-shirt, brown locks tied back into braids. Her features are small, dainty, delicate. Her jawline is fragile and yet somehow strong and determined even though her eyes are weary. And wary.