by Vivian Wood
“Please don’t say something smart about wedding rings.”
She gives me a saccharine smile. “You know it’s true, dear. You two weren’t married, thank god. You should just move on.” She pauses. “You know, I was talking to May Halmstadt — that’s Derrick Halmstadt’s mother — and she was saying that he just became single…”
I can’t roll my eyes hard enough. “Barf. Mother, please don’t play matchmaker for me. I literally cannot think of anything worse.”
She looks at her French-tipped nails and purses her lips. “I think you’ve had enough time in your lair. Let me set you up with a nice boy—”
“That’s it!” I throw my hands up. “Out. Out of my room, right this second.”
She glares at me as I shoo her out. “You can resist me if you really want to, but I don’t think you do. I suspect you are ready to jump ship. Move from that Navy boy’s little dinghy into a much nicer yacht—”
I close the door on her, tears already pricking at my eyes.
It’s been two months since I’ve heard Grayson’s voice. Four months since I’ve laid eyes on him. But I won’t give up on him.
I will wait until I hear from him, even if it takes a lifetime.
I will always wait for him.
Always.
Closing my eyes, I let my tears streak down my face.
Chapter Seventeen
Rachel
Being around Grayson this whole week has been exhausting emotionally. I’m always teetering between being spitting mad at him or trying to pretend that I’m not still attracted to him, which I am. It’s giving me whiplash, honestly.
And that’s not even paying attention to the way he makes me feel. Angry, yes. Heated, definitely. But also a little bit nostalgic, sprinkled in there.
This week has left me a confused mess.
By the time we reach the place where we’re meant to camp, I’m dragging. It’s the middle of the afternoon and the sun is out in full force. It’s hot in a way I can’t quite describe. My backpack somehow grew heavier with every mile I hiked and now I’m desperate to take it off.
I trail after Grayson as he approaches a clearing with a couple of small wood cabins in it. In front of the cabins I notice a fire pit and several benches made of weathered stone.
Grayson strides right up to one of the cabins. He shows no sign of slowing down, of course. He looks back at me, frowning.
“You can take this cabin,” he says, sweeping the door open. “I’ll take the other one.”
I push past him, dropping my backpack onto the bed. This cabin is even smaller than the one I had at Whiskey Bend. It’s barely big enough for a single cot and a rickety-looking nightstand. The ceiling is short too. Grayson will definitely have to duck to fit in his cabin.
Still it’s a relief to be unburdened from my backpack. I look at Grayson and rub my right shoulder, which aches from where the backpack’s strap pressed into it.
“What do we need to do now?”
He shrugs. “Relax for a minute. I’ll do all the basic stuff.”
I’m so frigging tired, but my pride won’t let me just sit back and let him do all the work.
“Like what? I can help do things.”
He stretches a little using the door frame to my cabin. “Uhhh… there should be a delivery of food soon. I should set up the fire pit now so we don't have to do anything later. That’s pretty much it.” He looks thoughtful. “There is a composting toilet here, lucky for you.”
I scrunch up my face. “Great.”
He looks amused. “I’m going to go find a couple of good trees to string up my hammock between. You really should rest a little. You look like you could use it.”
I glare at him. My mouth opens to defend myself but he already turning away and heading back toward the tree line.
Stupid Grayson with his stupid boundless energy. If I weren’t bone tired, I would come up with a good comeback to that.
Instead of watching him go, I sag onto the cot. It feels incredible to sit right now. My stomach rumbles and I pull out the huge bag of trail mix that I brought from Whiskey Bend. After I spread my sleeping bag over the cot and take off my hiking boots, it’s all too easy to fall back onto the bed and munch on trail mix.
I let myself close my eyes for a second. Listening to the sounds around me, the sound of the trees and the birds, I allow myself a little break. I think about Grayson, about how he looked today while we were hiking. He seemed very comfortable, very much in his element. And I definitely looked at his muscular thighs more than a few times while I was following him.
When was the last time that I had an orgasm? God, it’s been months at the very least. Thinking about that, I relax a little more. I hear the sound of deep breathing and then…
I open my eyes. The door to my cabin is still wide open. The sun is much lower now, coming in my door at an angle that indicates it is early evening.
Shit. I fell asleep.
I crawl upright. Testing my feet, I find that they are less sore than they were a few days ago when I ran eight miles in my hiking boots. Still, to be on the safe side, I spend about ten minutes applying ointments to blisters and digging my Teva sandals out of my backpack.
Shading my eyes against the sunlight, I step outside, careful to close the door behind me. I don't see Grayson anywhere, but I hear something.
Cocking my head, I focus on the sound. It’s a rhythmic thwacking and it’s coming from somewhere in the trees. Following the sound, I soon find Grayson.
Shirtless, his entire back gleaming with sweat, he’s chopping wood. He’s facing away from me which is good… because I’m unable to school my expression for a few moments.
He looks good as he chops wood. He looks really good.
Like… I want to run my tongue all over his body good.
Grayson swings the axe back and then hefts it overhead in a fluid arc. Then he clears the split wood from the area on the ground and replaces it. As he continues to work at his task, every muscle in his back stands out, every ridge is defined.
I bite my lower lip and allow my gaze to wander over his body for a moment. It’s not as if I didn’t already know that Grayson is hot. I did.
I’ve slept with him before, for god’s sake.
But that was five years ago. I was younger and so was he. I do the math in my head quickly.
Already almost four years older than me, Grayson was… what, twenty three the last time I saw him? While he already had a pretty honed physique back then, it’s nothing compared to the way he looks now.
Working as a park ranger has made him leaner than he used to be. He’s all muscle now. More adult than he was back then.
He stiffens and turns. Then he does a double take when he sees me. He flings his axe head-first into a piece of wood and rounds on me.
“You almost scared the shit out of me.”
Does he know what was going through my head just now? My face warms. I wrap my arms around myself, sheepish. “Sorry.”
Grayson points to his canteen, which is standing about two feet to the right of me. “Can you throw that to me?”
Awkwardly I grab his canteen and toss it to him. He catches it and takes a gulp. I feel like a needy teenage girl again for a moment as I watch him slake his thirst.
Then I give myself a shake. Standing up straight, I corral my features.
You are an adult, I remind myself. This isn’t college and you both aren’t kids anymore.
Grayson finishes his water, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Has the food come?” he asks.
“Errr…” I turn and look back toward the camp, flustered. “I don't know. Why did we hike up here if we are in a place where food can be delivered?”
“It was part of the larger experience,” he says. “Getting you used to hiking and being in the woods. Plus, didn’t you collect a water sample?”
I pout. “Yes. That place is so close to Whiskey Bend, though…”
He roll
s his eyes at me, which is a relief. It’s way easier to deal with Grayson when he is being sarcastic with me. Less tough than it is to handle my emotions concerning him when he’s not an active participant in the conversation, honestly.
“Let’s go check. Wanna help me with carrying some wood since you’re already here?”
I blow out a breath. “Sure.”
We both load our arms up with big chunks of wood. Carrying them into camp, I follow Grayson’s lead in dumping them beside the fire pit. When I am tossing my chunks of wood on the ground though, I feel a sting lace my palm.
“Ow,” I mutter, scrunching up my face. It really hurts.
Dropping the last piece of firewood, I look at my palm. Embedded there is a small cluster of splinters, dug into my flesh nice and deep. My first reaction is to put my mouth over the cuts, wincing as my saliva is added to the mix.
“Did you cut yourself?” Grayson asks.
My response is automatic. “It’s nothing.”
He raises a brow, but I rush to cut him off.
“Is there someplace around here that I can bathe? Not tonight, but in the next few days.”
He nods. “There is a stream pretty close by. Just north of here.”
He points away from the cabins.
“Can I find it on my own?”
His lips quirk. “If you have ears, you can find it. You can always find water.”
Before I can ask anything else I hear tires on gravel and a high-pitched engine sound. A four-wheeler races into the clearing, its tires squealing to a stop.
The camofluage-wearing young man doffs his hat and swings a huge ice chest off the back of his vehicle. “Grayson Sellwood?”
Grayson bobs his head. “Right here.”
He jogs over to the four-wheeler and takes the package, then signs the form that the younger guy whips out. The younger guy isn’t done, though. He hops up and lifts the seat of his four-wheeler up. Digging out a large black-lidded box, he turns to me.
“Rachel Black? I think this is for you.”
I frown, wondering what it could be.
I pad over to accept the box and sign for it. It’s pretty hefty, whatever it is. As soon as I step back, the young man pops his seat back down and climbs on. Without so much as a wave, he makes himself scarce.
And they say people in Manhattan are rude.
Setting my box down, I pry off the lid. A puff of freezing air comes out along with the smoke that I associate with dry ice. Waving it off, I see a note at the top.
My Most Darling —
A week into your little excursion, you must miss the finer things. Don mentioned that he was sending you some things for work so I thought I would also send you some of your favorite things. Just remember, you can come home at any time for another taste.
Say the word and you will have it.
Clay
Ugh.
UGH.
Balling up the note, I toss it aside. Under the note I find a dozen Russ & Daughters everything bagels, a container of smoked fish and a container of cream cheese, a little box of Carrie cupcakes from Magnolia bakery, and the biggest box of French macarons from Lauduree that I’ve ever seen. Also, nestled at the bottom of all the food is a teal ring box from Tiffany’s.
For the love of all that’s holy. If that’s a real ring, I will kill that man.
I am still so angry with him. My father too, since the other half of this box is taken up by a few equipment cases. He knew what Clay did and he still let Clay send me this stuff.
This is what I mean when I say that I can’t stand how the men in my life to control me. Like I’m just a pawn and my emotions don't even matter.
“What’s in your box?” Grayson asks, cutting down a little of the red haze that threatens to overtake my vision.
Clearing my throat, I stuff the food on top of the ring box.
“It’s just a few things to remind me of home. You know, macarons and bagels. All that jazz. Plus some more hydrogeology equipment.”
Grayson looks impressed. “I don't even know what that is, honestly.”
I give him a brief smile. “It’s one of the things I concentrated on when I was getting my master’s degree in environmental engineering.”
He nods but it’s obvious that doesn’t really mean anything to him. His brain just skips right over that information.
“How do you feel about tacos for dinner?”
I don't wrinkle my nose but it is an effort.
“Fine,” I say. I’m not in any place to be uppity about what I eat.
“Great. I’ll thaw out some chicken breasts.”
He bends over the crate of food and starts pawing through it. I don’t stay and let my gaze linger on his ass. Instead, I pick up my box and start lugging it toward my cabin, my thoughts an absolute mess.
Chapter Eighteen
Grayson
It’s just so damned hot.
There is something about how the sun reflects off the sand that kills me. Or maybe it has more to do with the heavy camouflage canvas pants and shirt I’m wearing, layered over under clothes and under fifteen pounds of gear. Add the helmet, the gloves, and the ever-present earpiece and microphone pack to that and you wind up with heat stroke breathing down your neck.
Such is the life of a Navy SEAL in uniform. We are riding in a Humvee with the air conditioning at full fucking blast and I’m still sweating through my boxer briefs. I sigh, laying my head back on the seat for a second. Tillson and Danvers are sitting ahead of me, Tillson grinning like an idiot as he drives the Humvee. It’s his first time driving although he’s been begging us to let him do it for months.
He’s my best friend in the unit so today I finally gave in. He hasn’t stopped beaming since.
Danvers, in comparison to Tillson, is the opposite. He surveys everything around him coolly, showing little or no emotion no matter what he sees. He’s a few years older than me, with a wife and two kids. I have no idea how he isn’t losing his shit every second of the day but hey. I don't ask questions.
Which is how I got to be the leader of this unit. Well, okay. I’m not usually the leader of jack shit but we had two older soldiers leave and now I’m in charge. It’s supposedly temporary but we will just see how it goes.
“We’re coming up to a roadblock,” Danvers says.
Sure enough when I raise my head, we are quickly approaching one of the many thrown together collections of items — tires, sign posts, anything that can block the road and stop a vehicle. Whoever is stopping this and whatever their purpose is, it has to be dealt with decisively.
There are two ways of handling this.
We can go around, chance the Humvee being bogged down in the shifting sand dunes all around us.
Or we can go through the actual stop. Flash our military identification and hope like hell that the US hasn’t pissed this particular group off.
This is the third roadblock we have encountered in as many days, so I lean closer to the dash, scrutinizing the scene. There isn’t anyone to be seen, although that’s not terribly unusual. The thieves — getting money is what these roadblocks are mostly about — secret themselves behind a sand dune and wait.
Without anyone to look at, I’m judging just their setup. In this case it’s basically two stacks of beat up tires and a long piece of metal pipe.
“What do you want to do?” Tillson says, looking at me in the rearview. “We’re real close now.”
Fuck the guys who put the roadblock in our way. Fuck it being hot. Fuck this godawful country.
I make a snap decision.
“Go around it,” I say. “We don't have time for this shit.”
“Heard that,” Tillson says.
As we come up on the roadblock, Tillson veers the Humvee off the road. All three of our heads bob as we go over the lip that defines the roadway. Tillson lets out a whoop of joy as he pilots the Humvee around the piles of tires.
I see a glint of metal in the distance. My eye is drawn towards it be
fore I even realize that it’s a man holding an old-fashioned bazooka. He doesn’t fire, but the fact that he’s watching means something seriously bad is about to go down.
“Shit,” Danvers mutters.
And then there is an explosion, rocking our whole Humvee to the side. Every piece of equipment in the Humvee is suddenly going crazy, beeping alarmingly. But I don't even notice for more than a second because two more big explosions hit our vehicle, flipping it over. We move in a quick and violent motion.
When we flip over, it breaks something in the Humvee’s roof. The windshield shatters. I brace myself on the ceiling as the Humvee bounces upside down, scooting a few feet through the sand before coming to a rest. I’m in shock, too much to be able to move for a few good seconds.
I don't black out exactly. I just stare at the fire engulfing the Humvee’s front end, my brain trying desperately to catch up. When the engine blows up though, I finally start to struggle.
Danvers isn’t moving. Tillson sluggishly unbuckles his seat belt. When he turns around though, there is clearly something wrong.
A big piece of metal in lodged right between his eyes.
I can’t help but panic.
“Fuck!” I scream. “Tillson… Tillson, don't move…”
Heart pounding, I struggle with my seatbelt.
“Grayson?”
I blink a few times. Somewhere between one blink and the next, the scene shifts. It goes from bright and loud to dark and quiet. The stars shine brightly down on me as I lay in my hammock, the treetops above swaying.
I’m soaked. Absolutely drenched in my own sweat.
Fuck, I dreamt about them again.
“Grayson, are you okay?”
I look over to find Rachel peering down at me. She is wearing nothing but a long t-shirt, a pair of super short boxers, and a worried expression.
Shit. She definitely wasn’t supposed to see me when I’m sleeping. If I made enough noise to bring her over here, it was a full-blown PTSD dream. I do not want her seeing any more of those and asking questions.
