Page 114 of Unmanageable

“More like a hazard to property and furniture,” I tease, reaching out to gently poke his shoulder.

He laughs before pulling me flat against his chest and wrapping his arms around me. He lifts my left hand to his mouth and presses a kiss right against my tattoo.

“Consider your contract terminated,” I mutter against his skin.

He laughs a soft, quiet laugh. “Not a chance.”

31

Cash

I wake up with my face buried in Scottie’s hair.

My left arm is pinned beneath her shoulder, dead from the elbow down, tingling with that frantic, pins-and-needles static.

I don’t give a shit. I just lie there for a minute, listening to the slow, steady hitch of her breath against my collarbone.

It’s the kind of quiet that feels like it could last forever, if I’m lucky.

She stirs, her elbow digging right into my lower ribs with a sharp poke.

“Finn,” she mutters, her voice thick with sleep. “Your ribs are too hard. It’s like sleeping on a piece of gym equipment.”

“You’re the one who fell asleep using my chest as a pillow, Scottie,” I murmur, my own voice raspy. “I’m just the furniture.”

Scottie’s eyes blink open, bright green and surprisingly clear behind a thin layer of exhaustion. She looks at my hair, which I know is currently sticking up in four different directions, and a sudden giggle leaks out of her mouth.

“What?” I ask, my mouth twitching into a grin.

“You look like you got electrocuted by a Zamboni,” she says, her fingers sliding up to tug on a stray spike above my ear. “It’s an aggressive aesthetic for seven in the morning.”

“It’s called style,” I say, rolling over onto my side until I’m hovering over her, my forearms flanking her shoulders on the white sheets. I watch the way the morning light catches the messy, beautiful copper of her hair spread across the pillow.

“Want to give me my trophy again before we pack the duffels?” I ask, my voice dropping an octave.

“Absolutely not,” she laughs, though she doesn’t push me away. Instead, she arches into my touch, her hand resting against my forearm. “I have bills to review, Cash. And you have an actual contract negotiation pending if I can get the front office to respond to my last addendum. Get off me, you giant.”

I let out a dramatic groan, letting my full weight drop onto her for three seconds until she shrieks and bats at my ears, before I finally roll off the bed and onto the hardwood floor.

I reach for my gray shorts, shaking out a piece of dried grass, and look back at the bed. The room feels smaller now, the reality of the road trip creeping back into the space.

“Where to now? We’re getting to the end of the line on this tour.”

Scottie is sitting up against the headboard, her hand reaching for her phone on the nightstand to check the agency routing schedule.

Her fingers freeze above the glass. She looks at the screen, her thumb scrolling once, twice. The light from the device reflects in her eyes, turning them a sterile, unreadable gray.

“Oklahoma,” she says.

I stop with my t-shirt halfway over my head, my eyes locking onto her profile. The red hair is hanging down the side of her face, blocking my view of her expression, but I can see the sharp, rapid pulse beating against the hollow of her throat.

“Oklahoma,” I repeat, watching her closely. “That’s fun.”

“Yeah, fun,” she says.

She slides out of bed before I can say anything else, her bare feet hitting the floorboards as she snatches her clothes, walks into the bathroom and shuts the door before I can even ask if she wants coffee.

The shower runs for twenty minutes. When the water stops, there’s another long stretch of nothing. No hair dryer, no rustling bags, just silence.