Hearts Under Siege by Natalie J. Damschroder Page B

“Before they realize they went too far and missed us.”
    “Hang on.” He watched, seemed to be counting. Then he pulled out and turned right, so tight the rock scraped Molly’s door with a screech she was sure their pursuers must have heard.
    But though she watched, fear building a lump in her throat until she couldn’t swallow without a long, slow, burning pain, no one came up behind them.
    “What now?” she asked him. “We’re going the wrong way.”
    “I know. Can you get my GPS out of my bag? We can’t go back to the main road. I have to find another way.”
    Retrieving the unit gave her something to do, which eased her throat, then Brady kept her busy looking up coordinates on a map from the glove compartment and navigating him through a maze of back roads through the jungle. It kept them safe, but took four hours instead of the expected two, and by the time they reached the city, they’d missed the last flight of the day and had to get a hotel room until morning.
    Molly couldn’t say she minded. She let Brady check them into the chain hotel, struggling not to sway where she stood. No one had better attack them here. She was too tired to fight. In fact, she couldn’t seem to expand her awareness outside a two-inch perimeter. Her surroundings were a buzzing blur. Or a blurry buzz. Like a Monet painting, or sidewalk chalk. Non-HDTV.
    “Come on, Puddle.” Brady’s hand closed around her arm, his tone amused but weary. She didn’t need extra resources to hear that. She could identify Brady and his mood in her sleep.
    Okay, she’d completely lost it. She hadn’t been that unguarded about Brady, even in her own head, for years.
    “Don’t call me Puddle,” she managed, and let him walk her to the elevator. She’d always hated that old nickname, which started the summer she’d first gotten her period and cried every other minute. “What floor are our rooms on?”
    “Room.”
    A spark, a rush, and okay, now she was alert. “Room? Singular?” She slid out of his grasp and leaned against the elevator wall. “You only got one room?”
    “Yeah, it’s safer.” He was watching the numbers above the door. When she didn’t say anything, he glanced over. “What?”
    “So there was more than one room available.”
    “I didn’t ask. If those guys find us, I don’t want you somewhere else.” He frowned as the bell pinged. “What’s the problem? It’s a double. And we’ve shared a room hundreds of times.”
    Of course they had, even the same bed back in college, after a couple of parties in his frat house. But that was then. She hadn’t even been in the same building with him for a very long time, and never under the pressure of the emotions stewing in them both. Too tired to explain, she just shook her head and stepped out of the elevator.
    “Whatever,” Brady muttered, aiming for a door at the end of the hall. Molly concentrated on placing one foot in front of the other without staggering, and wondered how drunk she looked to anyone watching. Was anyone watching? She pivoted all the way around, and nope, the hall was empty. No visible cameras.
    Then she was inside the hotel room. Relief hit hard, and she stumbled the five feet to the nearest bed, falling flat on her face.
    Brady hauled her back up. “Not yet, Puddle. You need a shower.”
    Molly groaned and opened her eyes, startled to find him standing so close. The hard wall of his chest was within leaning distance—oh-so-fucking tempting—and with a slight flick of her eyes, she could see the pulse in his throat, the rough stubble on his jaw, and his perfectly shaped mouth. She could hardly breathe, her heart pounding, her brain short-circuiting with a need she could never, ever give in to.
    Especially now.
    Strangely, Brady didn’t back away. His chest expanded, contracted, as he breathed in time with her. His lips were parted, but she wouldn’t look up higher, to see his eyes. She just waited, not allowing herself to hope, though her