Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 132491 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132491 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
I wish I had my hair down so I could hide my flushed face behind it, but it’s secured in its usual inferno-survival bun on top of my head.
“You okay?” Marcus stops and bends to help me pick up the potatoes.
“I’m fine.”
My knee hurts, but it’s nothing major. I just want to pick up the potatoes and get away from him. Even in the apocalypse, I’m still a woman, and I don’t like how much I enjoy his closeness.
Rationally, I know I need to keep my head down and avoid him. But when we both reach for a potato at the same time and his fingers brush mine, my heart thrums in a chaotic rhythm and any sense I had vanishes.
I pull my hand away like his is a scorching hot stove, grabbing the final potato from the ground and then standing.
He looks at my injured knee, frowning even though he can’t see it beneath my pants.
“Let me,” he says, coming around the take the handle of my cart.
“No, you don’t have—”
He ignores my protest and I step back. The cart is lopsided, one of the front wheels half buried in a hole. The potatoes are heavy, making the cords of muscle on his arms stand out as he pulls the cart back to get the wheel free.
“Thanks.” I force myself not to look at him, because I don’t want him to see the stars in my eyes.
It’s ridiculous, feeling such a powerful pull to a man who wanted to leave me to die in the jungle. He’s not a good guy, and I need to remind myself of that more often.
“I’ll have someone fill that hole,” Nova says.
Oh, that’s right—other people exist. I had forgotten. My gaze flicks to her and I murmur my thanks.
Marcus starts moving the cart, and I furrow my brow and say, “I can get it from here.”
“Going to the kitchen?” he asks, still holding on to the cart’s handle.
I narrow my eyes, aggravated. “Yes, but I’ve got it.”
“You need that knee looked at?”
He pulls the cart with one hand, like it weighs nothing. It takes everything I’ve got when it’s full of heavy produce to move it—both legs, both arms and the occasional break to swear and catch my breath.
“No.” I fire the word at him like a weapon. “I’m capable.”
“I know that.”
“Don’t patronize me.”
I look to Nova, hoping for some female support, but she’s examining something nonexistent on her arm.
When Marcus turns, the familiar stitching on the leather sheath of the knife secured at his waist catches my eye. It makes me want to hiss like a pissed-off cat.
“That’s my knife.”
He just shakes his head, Nova jogging ahead of us to open the door to the kitchen. I despise that a man who would so openly taunt me gives me butterflies. My type is kind. Happy. Generous.
Marcus is none of those. I fall into step beside him.
“Tell me where you found it,” he says.
“You’re carrying it just to get to me.”
He arches a brow. “I’m carrying it because it belongs to someone who means a lot to me and I want to keep it safe.”
Everything stops, including my breathing. Someone who means a lot to him. The knife belongs to a woman. That’s why he’s so worked up about it. She’s not here anymore, and he wants to find her.
I feel an intense jealousy for someone I don’t even know. Could it be residual aromium? I’ve never experienced this, and I don’t like it.
I step aside, letting him push the cart into the kitchen. When I follow him, the kitchen workers are all looking at him, frozen.
“Vadim.” Marcus nods at the head chef.
His gaze shifts to mine for a brief second, and then he leaves. My pulse is still erratic, which makes me want to cap my other knee. I can’t afford this weakness.
“Getting the boss to make your deliveries?” Vadim cracks, smiling widely.
The mood in the room relaxes now that Marcus is gone, and everyone returns to work.
Vadim is the man I first met on the beach the day I got here—the one who tried to save me by taking me with him. He’s even bigger than Marcus at six-six, his shoulders wide and his legs like tree trunks.
But Vadim would rather have a whisk in his hand than a spear. He has dark skin and warm caramel eyes, and he’s usually smiling. The apron he wears looks child-sized on him. He always wears a bandanna around his long braids, and today it’s a red one.
“The cart got stuck outside the door,” I say defensively.
A woman named Meg helps me unload sweet potatoes into a pile on a counter. Vadim walks over to us, wiping his hands on a towel.
“Those will do nicely,” he murmurs.
“What are you doing with them?” I ask.
“They’ll go into a stew that’s a lot like chili.” Vadim’s eyes sparkle with enthusiasm. “Vegetarian, but loaded with smoky spices, ripe tomatoes, peppers and onions and sweet potatoes. It’s thick and hearty.”