Her Own Best Enemy (The Remnants, Book 1) by Cynthia Justlin Page A

bathroom.
    “You’re eating. I begged some soup off the manager in the office while you were in there. It’s getting cold.”
    She willed herself to move from the tub, but her limbs shook too much to cooperate. Water dribbled from the roots of her hair and splashed into her eyes. She wiped it away with a trembling hand.
    “Go away.”
    She didn’t think he’d heard her whispered words, but his footsteps moved away from the door. Good. She just wanted to be left alone.
    She stepped from the tub. The steam had started to dissipate from the bathroom, rivulets of moisture running down the length of the mirror. She wiped the wetness away with her hand, but then thought better of examining her reflection and went to wrap herself in one of the flimsy towels hanging on the rack.
    She reached for her clothes—her dirty t-shirt and jeans—and realized she was staring at the sole contents of her wardrobe. Everything else had burned in the fire.
    Oh, God, who cared. They were just clothes, meaningless possessions she was glad to lose in exchange for Ryker’s safety. Oh, baby. Please be safe.
    “Grace.”
    She wrapped the towel tight around her body and clutched it together with one hand. “I—I’m coming.”
    She quickly donned her clothes and left the bathroom. Keith had reclaimed the recliner. On the small table sat a steaming bowl of chicken noodle soup. She breathed deep, the smell of the food making her stomach clench. Her gaze shot to Keith.
    One bowl. One spoon.
    “Aren’t you going to eat?” she asked.
    “Already did.”
    “Oh.” She pulled out the rickety chair and sat, her back to him, refusing to feel the least disappointed that he wouldn’t sit with her. What could he do anyhow? Offer comfort and platitudes? Reassure her that Ryker would be in her arms come tomorrow afternoon? Empty words, especially coming from someone like Keith. She’d eat the soup then go to bed. The last thing she wanted was to connect with Keith on any level other than their arrangement.
    She swallowed the last bite of soup then took the bowl and spoon to the sink where she washed them and put them away.
    “Well. I guess I’ll turn in,” she said.
    “Me too.”
    Her heart dropped to her toes. “What?”
    Keith stood. His gaze roved over her face then dropped to the slightly damp spots clinging to her shirt just below her breasts.
    Damn that inadequate towel.
    He jerked his head in the direction of the worn chair. “I’ll take the recliner.”
    Relief flowed through her veins and near hysteria bubbled up inside her. No way could she ever climb in the same bed with him, not even if a mountain of pillows were between them instead of the two measly ones that peeked from under the blankets.
    Keith dropped back into the chair; the recliner squeaked in protest. He lifted the lever to pop the footrest then shifted his weight as if searching for a comfortable spot. The chair was much too small for his broad frame and he had to angle his head in order to stretch out.
    She bit her lip. So, he’d wake up with a crick in his neck come morning. Big deal. He’d no doubt survived worse. She threw back the blankets and sat on the cool sheets.
    What good would one paltry little pillow do him anyhow? He’d probably still wake up with a crick in his neck.
    She plucked the thin white rectangle from the worn sheets and pressed it to her chest. Her fingers dug into the pillow’s meager softness.
    He’d made the offer to take the recliner. She could’ve just as well slept there. Without a pillow of her very own.
    Dang it.
    She pushed herself to her feet and rounded the bed. He could have the stupid pillow. At least she’d sleep with a clear conscience. Her free hand reached out and snagged the red and blue quilt off the bed.
    The blanket too?
    She sighed and thrust the bundle at Keith before she could change her mind. “Here. Take these.”
    He took his time acknowledging her, though she knew he wasn’t asleep. His eyes slid open. Wary.