Dead Over Heels (17 page)

My body is screaming:
Get out of this cold water right freaking now!

Easy, easy.

The current grows stronger as I near the rapids. Crap, I could really use my arms for balance. I take a risk and lob my jacket across the current toward the shore. I don’t even watch where it lands.

I’m so close to the rapids now, the sound of thousands of gallons of water pounds in my ears. Slow step and another.

And then I’m heaving myself onto the island.

“I made it!” I mean to sound triumphant, but it comes out more like a gasp of disbelief.

“Damn, girl.” Cole laughs in a way like this is definitely not funny. “I thought that current might wipe you out again.”

Water streams from my sodden clothes. I’m shivering so badly, my teeth might shatter against each other.

But I won’t show him I’m scared. “Did my jacket get wet?” I ask, trying to sound tough.

He laughs, loud and open. He points several feet away where my jacket rests on dry ground. “I gotta say—you do a good job thinking on your feet.” His teeth chatter as he speaks.

“Thanks.”

“Now put your jacket on and get in the sleeping bag. Before you freeze.”

“No,” I argue, “I see you over there shivering in your wet clothes. I’m going to help you get the fire started.”

Cole shakes his head. Mutters something that might be “stubborn as hell,” and starts collecting kindling.

Sticks and pine needles cover the center of the island, still damp from the sleet storm and constant mist of the waterfall. I dig down a few inches and grab any dryish branches I can find. Cole’s already made a ring of stones. I dump everything beside it. By the lamp of the rising moon, I break sticks while Cole shreds pine needles and a tissue from my purse. I haul over two large branches to dry our clothes on.

Shivering violently, I peel off my icy-wet shirt and drape it over the branch. For a second, the upper half of my body is only wet bra and skin. When I glance up, Cole turns away quickly. Heat blossoms in my cheeks. Thank God I’m wearing a black bra that won’t show the dirt and grime of the past few days. As I reach for my dry jacket, I remember the broken zipper. It gapes open, revealing my upper body.

Oh well. I guess Cole can gawk at my bra some more.

But he keeps his eyes locked on the fire ring. “This worked,” he says holding up my EpiPen canister. Inside, the matchbook stayed dry. “Ready?” he asks, deliberately not looking in my direction.

I understand immediately. We have four matches. That’s it. We need to make this work. On the first try, at best.

For some reason, my brain leaps back to that first morning when I jealously watched Cole and Bethany start a fire. Tonight, there isn’t time for that kind of insecurity. I need to help—need to block the misty breeze coming off the water. I cup my hands around the match as he strikes.

Nothing.

“Dammit,” he says.

I expect him to reach for another, but he flips the match over and tries again. Nothing. He throws the dead match in the fire ring.

“Match number two,” he says, sounding pissed. His fingers shake with cold and nerves.

Again, nothing on either side. “I think they got damp,” he says sadly. “Not in your Epi-tube thing. In the hiker’s pack. During the sleet.” He shakes his hand. “And my damn fingers keep cramping from the cold.”

I grasp his hand between mine and start massaging his icy knuckles.

His eyes lock with mine. The look he gives me could melt all the ice in the national forest. Deep and hungry.

He’s going to kiss me again. I’m sure he’ll kiss me again.

Instead, Cole drags his gaze away and grabs another match. I shake my head to clear it, trying to focus on the task at hand.

He swipes the third match in a halfhearted way. It catches.

We blink, surprised. “Damn! I was wrong! Guess they didn’t get wet.” Excitement brightens his eyes.

Quickly, he touches several places in the tissues, which catch easily. Score another point for random junk from my purse. A granola-bar wrapper goes up in flame, igniting crumpled flyers from the fire tower. In the gathering darkness, Cole patiently adds pine needles one by one, until their heat dries the larger pieces of wood. Within ten minutes, flames are leaping high.

I realize I’ve been practically holding my breath.

Carefully, I cap the remaining match in the tube and stash it in my purse. Then I fiddle with the metal cooking pan from the hiker’s pack, figuring out how to attach the handle. I fill it with water while Cole feeds the fire and tries to pretend like he’s not looking at my bra.

And I pretend not to want him to look.

“How about beef stew?” I ask, rummaging in the sleeping-bag bundle. “And cocoa?”

“What?” He’s obviously distracted.

“Beef. Stew.” I repeat slowly, holding up the packet. “And cocoa.”

“Yes.” He clears his throat. “Perfect.”

Once again, he forces his eyes down, and lines up a few flat rocks, creating a level place to cook on the flames. I pass him the pan.

His gaze shoots up, sneaking a peek at my chest.

He clears his throat again. Glances away.

I fight the urge to giggle.

A sudden sense of happiness overwhelms me. We have a fire. And a solid lead over the zombies. And a safe place to sleep. And I’ve almost reached my family. And I get to spend the night with a hot boy.

My smile fades. Too bad it’s the
last
night.

I roll a small log closer for us to sit on while we feed the fire. Cole stays quiet, his attention fixed on cleaning his knife over and over.

With a lot of coaxing and patience, the flames eventually throw off solid, bone-thawing heat and the water in the pan begins to bubble. Hands shaking, I add liquid to the food packets. The smell of meat and spices makes me want to stick my face in the opening and choke down the food in one gulp. Cole gallantly gives me the hiker’s spork, using his knife to spear the first bite of stew.

“Mmm,” he groans, chewing. “Delicious.”

“I’m not much of a beef-stew person,” I say between mouthfuls, “but this tastes freaking fantastic.”

“I’m sure it’s got nothing to do with the fact we’re starving.”

I add hot water to the tin mug and carefully stir in the cocoa mix. We each take a long pull from the cup.

Cole smacks his lips. “Best thing I’ve ever tasted.” He stares at the ground. “Well, maybe second-best.”

His gaze lifts, stopping at my mouth.

My heart thumps. “What’s first?”

He pauses to spear another lump of brown meat on his knife. “Beef stew.” He flashes me that cocky grin.

I laugh, glancing away, then back again, suddenly shy.

He’s still staring. He clears his throat once more. “I guess I was out of line with that kiss.”

The cocoa sticks in my throat. “Why would you think that?”

“Maybe you have a boyfriend back home or something.” Cole sets his empty food bag aside.

“Nope,” I answer. “No boyfriend.” I give Cole a sidelong glance. “Why are you asking? You’re the one with a girlfriend.”

“Bethany?” he sputters, passing me the cup. “Are you kidding?”

“Oh, come on,” I tease. “She’s perfect for you, Cole.”

“Yeah, except the part where she turned all my friends to zombies. Besides, I told you, I tried to break it off with her a million times. You saw what she’s like.”

“So you’re saying she’s still officially your girlfriend, but only because she wouldn’t accept your breakup? That’s a terrible explanation, Cole.” I keep my tone light, so he knows I’m flirting. Hard core.

Cole pours warm water on his knife, then snaps it shut with a sharp
click.
“Bethany is not my girlfriend.” He matches my flirty tone.

I have to bite my lips to keep from smiling. I shift closer on the log. “She thinks she is.”

He fights not to focus on my open jacket. “I didn’t do a good job breaking up with her.” His eyes bore into mine. The light tone disappears. “But I swear. I haven’t laid a hand on her in four months.”

“Why should I care? It’s not my business.” My voice grows serious. I’m unable to turn away.

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it’s really—”

His hands move to cup my face again, holding me, forcing me to meet his eyes. “It is your business.”

I lick my lips. He’s gonna have to say it. I’m gonna make him say it. “Why is it my business, Cole?”

“Because, City-Girl. It’s you I want.”

And then his lips are on mine again. There’s an awkward second as I set the cocoa mug on the ground, trying to get it out of our way. Water boils merrily in the pan, ready for our second cup of cocoa, now totally forgotten.

Cole’s hands hold my head, like he’s trying to trap me in a kiss that I have no urge to get away from. My body strains to move closer to his.

“I’m freezing,” I whisper against his lips. “Let’s get in the sleeping bag.”

…

Ava gives me a wicked little smile as she crawls in the sleeping bag.

My stomach flips.

“Aren’t you coming?” she asks.

I rake a hand through my hair and try to take a solid breath. “I’ve been watching you walk around in black lingerie for the last hour. If I get in that sleeping bag with you, there’s no way I could be a gentleman.”

In response, she unzips the bag, holds it open, and pats the space beside her.

I might have a lot of self-control, but I’m not made of stone. Two strides and I’m slipping into the bag, stretching out alongside her. Her skin is silk under my calloused hands. Her lips meet mine, and I get the strangest feeling—drowning and floating at the same time. We kiss, the soft, sweet kisses I’ve been wanting for days. But they grow longer, deeper.

How long have we been kissing? Five minutes? An hour? I hope it never ends.

“Our clothes are still wet,” she murmurs.

“We should get out of them,” I say, picking up her train of thought. “Hang them up to dry.”

Her lips graze my jawline, sending shivers up my spine.

“Let me help you.” Her fingertips snag the hemline of my shirt, dragging it over my head.

Hellfire, I don’t even remember taking off my jacket.
Hers is gone, too. Did I do that?

Ava’s fingers slide along my stomach, dipping into the waistband of my boxers.

Wait, my pants are gone, too?

Moaning, I move her onto her back. She kisses my scar and for a moment I freeze and shiver. Then I kiss her again. She tastes like cocoa.

For a few minutes, I’m a normal guy, not running from zombies, not hiding and trying to stay alive. Just focused on the beautiful girl in my arms. It’s like some terrible, awful nightmare has turned on a dime, morphing into sweet fantasy. The horror of the last four days slides away and there is nothing but Ava and me.

And the softness of her skin, her mouth.

Oh damn. Oh damn damn damn.

I pull back. “We gotta slow down.” I laugh.

Her eyes are soft and liquid. “Not sure I can.”

I pull away—just slightly. Hard to do in a narrow sleeping bag. “We can’t. You know we can’t, right?”

Ava exhales slowly as her mouth puckers into a pout. “I had a feeling you’d say that.”

I move a wisp of bright hair from her face. “You deserve better than this,” I whisper. “Better than a quickie on the run with some guy who hasn’t showered in four days.”

She skims a finger down my chest. A shot of warmth ebbs through me.

“Oh, come on, Cole. A dip in the river is the same as a shower, right?”

It would be
so
easy to give in.

“Really, Ava. I ain’t feeding you lines. I really want to…be with you. It’s just…you ain’t Bethany. You ain’t—I don’t know. It’s a respect thing.” I take a frustrated breath. “Damn, I’m doing a crap job explaining—”

She gives a resigned half smile. “I believe you. You’re one of those guys who doesn’t like to lie.” She heaves a deep sigh. “And you’re right, as usual. We don’t have any, well—any basic supplies.”

I laugh, knowing
exactly
what she means. I’m glad we’re on the same page. “You ain’t mad?”

“I ain’t mad.”

My mouth finds hers again. But the kisses become slower. Calmer. Soothing like the rush of the river around us. “You do realize you’re in a sleeping bag, making out with a redneck?”

Her eyes widen with humor. “I have a new appreciation for country boys.”

“And I have a new appreciation for city girls.”

“Sing to me,” she whispers. “Get my mind off all the things we can’t do.”

I bury my face in her hair. “A kiss from pretty little Shady Grove is sweet as brandy wine, and there ain’t no girl in this whole world that’s prettier than mine. Shady Grove, my little love, Shady Grove, I say, Shady Grove, my little love, I’m bound to go away.”

I freeze suddenly, realizing how true those words are.

Going away. I’m going away from her. Tomorrow.
My head is full of Ava. Her taste, her scent. Leaving her tomorrow will be like ripping out my soul.

I pull her closer. Neither one of us speaks—every second feels bittersweet.

The night settles around us, cold and dark. I leave the sleeping bag long enough to wrap my jacket around a stone from the fire and put it at the bottom of our sleeping bag.

“Oh, that’s heavenly,” she mutters, as I stretch out alongside her again. “You are the most brilliant boy I’ve ever met.”

I shift onto my back as Ava snuggles against me. The tiny sliver of a moon glosses the world with a cold sheen.

Abruptly, she says, “There’s no way your dad and brother would be hunting this close to town, right?”