The Blonde Identity: A Novel

Two minutes later, Sawyer was kicking open the door of a building that was only three rooms, but they were dry, and sheltered, and empty.

“Well, it’s not much. But it’s home.”

“Thanks for carrying me over the threshold.”

“You’re welcome, Mrs. Michaelson,” he said softly.

The largest of the rooms had a table and chairs and, best of all, a fireplace. A few pieces of old wood were stacked in the corner, and there were waterproof matches in the Go Bag, so it was less than a minute before Sawyer was striking the match and holding it to the wood. When he leaned over and blew on the flame, Zoe felt herself shiver in a way that had very little to do with the cold.

“You okay?” he asked.

She would have answered but she was too busy trying to keep her teeth from rattling together because even though they were out of the wind, it was still very cold and she was still very wet and Sawyer was looking at her in a way that would have made her tremble under the best of circumstances.

“We have to get you dry.”

“I’m drying as fast as I can!” she said, inching closer to the tiny orange flame that was licking at the wood.

“Take off the coat.”

“I’m naked under this coat.”

“I thought you were wearing panties?”

“Panties are naked!” she shot back but he gave her a look. “They are, at the very least, semi-naked and . . .” Something on the shelves caught her eye. “Are those blankets?”

She sprang to her feet, but pain sliced through her body, vicious and hot, and she crashed back to the floor. “Darn it!”

“Language,” Sawyer teased, but he was already reaching for her bare foot and pulling it into his lap. “I said you couldn’t walk,” he reminded her, then carefully pulled something from between her toes. “Glass, remember?”

She had honestly forgotten.

“I guess it slipped my mind . . . what with the strangling and the drowning and the freezing—”

“And the shooting,” he offered helpfully.

“Right! Totally forgot about the shooting. So, yeah . . . glass.”

He was studying her foot in the faint light of the fire. “I don’t think you need stitches, but we’ll need to look you over in the morning. River probably washed most of the glass out which is a good thing.”

“Yay?” she tried.

“That’s the spirit!” Then he got up and grabbed the blankets. They were moth-eaten and filthy and Zoe almost wept with the sight of them. “Wet coat off. Dry blanket on.”

He dropped one in her lap but she just glared at him even though her lips were blue and her teeth were rattling.

“Well . . .”

“Well what?” He was already stripping out of his tuxedo. Which . . . a hot guy stripping out of a wet tuxedo raised her body temp a little but not nearly enough.

“Are you going to turn around?”

“You know I’ve seen . . .” He didn’t finish but gestured to what lay under Mr. Michaelson’s wool coat.

“You mean when you literally ripped my nightgown off?”

“One. Nightgown”—he did the ironic finger quotes again—“isn’t exactly the word I would use. And, two—I am, in fact, referring to the time I saved your life.”

But she didn’t speak. Didn’t scold. Didn’t laugh. And she absolutely did not move.

“Fine!” He spun to face the other direction and Zoe slipped an aching arm out of the wet wool. Instantly, the heat of the small fire washed over her skin and she sighed into the warmth.

Sawyer made a different kind of sound. “Can I turn around now or are you gonna just sit there, moaning?”

She wrapped the nasty blanket around herself. “You may turn,” she said and he joined her on the floor in front of the fire.

They spread his clothes out to dry and Zoe waited for the warmth to seep into her bones, for the fear to fade. Or, at the very least, for the ability to fake it, but that must have failed her, too, because after a few minutes, he said, “Are you shaking from the shock or from the cold?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you hurt?”

“I don’t know.” And for some reason, she just shook harder.

“Your teeth are going to break off.” He sounded almost angry as he pulled her to rest between his spread thighs, back to front, his arms wrapped around her. And maybe it was the warmth of his body or the pressure of his arms, but, somehow, Zoe stopped shaking. And for some reason that was almost worse. Because as her body slowed down, her mind sped up and she didn’t like where it went. At all.

“Talk to me, Zoe. Are you—”

“How do you do this?” Her voice cracked, and her nose ran but she couldn’t bring herself to care. “How does Alex? How is this your life?”

But Sawyer only squeezed her tighter. She felt his fingers in her hair, combing through the tangled strands. “Well, to be fair, this is the first time I’ve ever done this. Exactly. Usually, there’s a lot more blood and mud. And vodka.”

Something about the smooth cadence of his voice made her tuck her head and smile into the soft skin of his hard bicep. “Don’t make me laugh, you jerkface.”

“Okay,” he said, but he didn’t let her go. Instead, he tossed another piece of wood onto the fire and guided her down to the hard floor, spooning around her, a wall of muscle and bone to keep in the heat.

“You take it one day at a time,” he said slowly. “And if that’s too much, one hour. One minute. One breath. You inhale. Exhale. Repeat.” His finger brushed a strand of wet hair away from her neck, exposing the skin to the fire. “Inhale, Zoe.”

She knew it was an order, so she let the warm air fill her lungs, swearing she’d never take breathing for granted again.

“Now let it out, lady. Let it all out.”

And when she did, she wasn’t shaking anymore. But it was like a lead blanket had settled over her body, pushing her into the floor—into him—and every ounce of energy drained away.

Her eyes were already closed and her mind was already drifting when she felt something soft and warm touch her temple. “Go to sleep, sweetheart. Go to sleep. I’ve got you.”