What You See (Sons of the Survivalist #3) - Cherise Sinclair Page 0,48

her back. “When you’re ready to share the rest, I’ll be here. Ready to listen.”

She wanted to share. To tell him everything. And couldn’t.

At the burn of tears in her eyes, she hastily slid out of bed. “It’s morning. I should get moving. My shift starts early today.”

“Frankie.” He lifted those black eyebrows, his gaze steady. “You’re going to be too sore to carry trays. You’ll have the next two nights off from work. Stay.”

But if she didn’t leave right now, they’d probably do…sexy stuff…in that bed. And that was the problem.

Cazzo, she knew this would happen—that she’d start feeling all emotionally vulnerable and get attached. Just because of a few orgasms. And the way he felt inside her. That deep voice calling her sweetheart. His hand on her face. Those black eyes and…

No, no, no. Casual sex. Nothing more. She needed to concentrate on getting Kit out of that place. He was a distraction she couldn’t afford.

“I have lots of other stuff that must be done.” She pulled on her clothes, still astounded he’d not only washed everything for her yesterday, but had managed to get all the blood out, as well.

He rose from the bed, intimidating in size, yet so very tempting. Because she knew the feeling of his fingers on her skin, the taste of his mouth, his skin, his—

“Let me make you breakfast.” He adjusted her shirt sleeve, easing it over the bandage on her arm.

“No, no, thank you. I need to get home.” She wanted to settle her feelings, get past the sadness that this was all there could be.

She forced a smile. “This was a one-time thing, remember? No complications or entanglements. No expectations for anything afterward.” She bent to pet Gryff, taking comfort in the soft fur and wagging tail. Dogs were so straightforward.

When she straightened, Bull had pulled on a pair of jeans and stood watching her.

She hadn’t noticed before, but when he didn’t smile, he appeared dangerous—like the soldier he’d been. She drew in a breath. “Thank you for the rescue and one wonderful night away from reality.”

When he nodded, she knew he’d caught her meaning—that they were back in the real world. She had Kit and Aric to rescue. After that, well, her home was in New York as was her job and her responsibilities.

This night…had been just a dream.

Chapter Eleven

Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts. ~ Winston Churchill

The next morning, Frankie walked down Main Street, needing coffee more than she needed her next breath. She’d run out of coffee for the tiny coffeemaker in the cabin. Not that it made particularly good brew anyway.

She scowled at the blue sky, the cheerful snapdragons in the barrel-planters, and the bright clapboard storefronts. How dare everything be so happy.

Despite a dose of ibuprofen, her muscles still ached slightly from the unfamiliar hiking, and her arm throbbed. Nevertheless, she was past ready to return to her roadhouse job, but noooo. The boss said not until tomorrow.

I need coffee. And people. And to do something besides fail.

Maybe she’d just lay herself down on the sidewalk and have a temper tantrum.

“Morning, Frankie,” the postmistress called, herding her grandchildren into the grocery store.

“Good morning.” Well, merda. Guess it wouldn’t be appropriate to give Irene’s toddlers the example of a screaming tantrum. Besides…big tits, sore arm. It’d hurt too much.

Hands stuffed into her fleece jacket’s pockets, Frankie continued down the sidewalk. Nothing was going right.

Like the failure of her visit to the PZ compound. The chief was probably grateful the PZs weren’t located on a public road. Just imagine if visitors to Alaska decided the place was a tourist attraction.

A thrill a minute. Visit the notorious Patriot Zealot compound. See if you’re fast enough to dodge speeding bullets. Terror will strike on our featured cliff-ride when you fall right off the trail. Caution: Adults only. Possibility of death. Not recommended for the faint of heart.

Despite reaching the compound, she hadn’t figured out which building the children were in.

Then again, she’d gained essential information. Like if she wanted to cut through the fence, it’d better be done out of sight of the guard towers and at night because there was a big wide space between the fence and the tree line. She knew—all too well—that the guards had guns and would use them.

She’d found the right trail to use—the one that started at two cabins close together. What were their names? Chevy and Knox. Bull had called them