by Liora Blake
I work to process the data I have at hand as quickly as I can. A picture and two texts, both of which imply she’s not scrolling through a website, but that she’s physically here. I close my eyes to think more clearly, then open them again; still trying to determine if the conclusion I just arrived at is the truth or just another one of my daydreams involving Amber.
“She’s here,” I announce, confirming it for myself even more than I’m proclaiming it to Garrett.
“What? Are you sure?”
I flip the phone around and point the photo in Garrett’s direction. He leans forward and his face mirrors mine, screwing up into confusion. He steals the phone from my hand.
“Shit. Did you know she was coming?” His fingers start to flick across the phone face as I tell him this is all a surprise to me. His expression slackens a little. “Jesus Christ. You guys text all the time. What the—”
I grab the phone back. “Don’t look at that.”
An obnoxious smirk creeps across Garrett’s mouth—one I’m probably going to want to knock off his face in about ten seconds.
“You fucking sly dog,” he drawls. “You and she have a thing happening, don’t you?”
“No.”
My answer emerges firmly, absent of my own confusion on the topic. Is something happening between Amber and me? Maybe. But who knows if it’s more than the two of us enjoying the way we rouse each other up? Odds are, it’s not. Once she’s finished up her elk hunt out here, she’ll be off on some new adventure, and likely stirring up some other poor sap’s hopes for more with her. My lip curls at the thought. My gut sinks at the same time because I can’t help but pity that guy, whoever he is.
Garrett zeroes in on my changing expression in a way that means he’s prepared to mock my every move if I back down from the rest of his nosy fucking interrogation.
“Hold up, is this for real? I mean, have you guys … ?”
I shoot him the hardest look I can muster as heat crawls up my neck and threatens to color my cheeks like I’m some pathetic kid again. I steel my voice because if it cracks, I’ll never live this down. We’ll be collecting our social security checks, stocking up on pudding cups, tottering around with our canes, and he’ll still be giving me shit about it.
“No. We haven’t.”
Garrett’s jaw drops open and a barking laugh emerges. “Holy shit. But something’s happened. Maybe you haven’t banged her—”
“Don’t finish that sentence.” I suck in a deep breath. “She’s … hell, I don’t know. I don’t even know why she’s here. Her hunt is scheduled weeks from now, and it was supposed to happen when I’m back home on my deer hunt. She knows that. I have no clue what she’s up to by showing up here now.”
Garrett doesn’t reply; instead, he surveys my face for longer than I’m totally comfortable with, casually tapping his fingers on the tabletop.
“Want to know what I think?”
“Not really,” I grumble.
He snorts. Another exasperating thrum of his fingers on the table, drawing out the moment. Unfortunately, now I do want to know what he thinks. Mostly because I’m at a fucking loss. Mercifully, Garrett doesn’t make me ask, he just chuckles.
“Too bad. I’m going to tell you anyway. I think that the very fine Miss Amber Regan wanted to see you. I think she’s here because for whatever crazy reason, she digs you and your porcupine personality. That’s why she’s been texting you constantly, and why she’s shown up here with no warning. All the way from Texas.”
Garrett slurps the last of his coffee, folds up his plat map, and then points it my way before heading for the front door.
“And I think you’d better get to the Empire Ambassador before she starts to think you don’t give a shit.”
(Amber)
“… as a rock-hopper, log-balancer, and rough-trail-scrambler, you can also compete quite favorably with Mr. Average Man.”
—THE SIERRA CLUB WILDERNESS HANDBOOK, “WOMEN,” C. 1971
After twenty minutes, I lurch up from my outstretched position on one of the Empire Ambassador’s properly saggy beds to sit up straight. Peering into the dresser mirror across from me, I give myself an admonishing headshake.
No response to my texts. Zero.
Stupid, silly, irrational human being that I am, I expected a very different outcome this morning. An outcome that included Braden beating feet to get to me and a surprised-but-thrilled look on his face when I opened the door. Followed by the exchange of one lingering look worthy of a subtitled NC-17 movie and then a whole host of acts that would earn an upgrade on that rating. Later, I planned to have him take me on a proper date. A date on which I would wear the very tight, very hot blue dress I’d brought along, expressly to test out my previous theory about what look turns Braden’s crank. If I was right, my plan also included that dress ending up on the floor somewhere in his house.
And yes, I know how crazy all that sounds. To start, Braden probably doesn’t have a surprised-but-thrilled look in his arsenal of expressions. Furthermore, it’s possible he has other things going on and, you know, wasn’t simply waiting around for me to show up unannounced as I have. He could be working and out of cell range, busy nailing a poacher in the act of certain crimes against nature. Or maybe he and Garrett are off on some adventure, one that will end with them sharing some manly conversation over a breakfast of his sauerkraut and some sunny-side eggs. Or perhaps the Jolly Green Giant is sleeping in this morning, taking a break from his usual routine—one I know gets him out of bed by six a.m., because that is always when his replies to my nocturnal texts show up. Always. Although if this is a case of lazy snoozing, I hope it’s not the result of a long night with some meek, mousy, agreeable woman. Because the mere idea of that sets my nerves on edge.
A heavy sigh leaves me. Stupid, silly, irrational … These are the misfortunes of those afflicted with a crush. Let your loins and your heart get muddled up in this sort of thing, and it’s all bets off from there. Although reworking one’s schedule to hop a flight to Colorado, without fair warning to the object of all your crushing, might be a new low in the realm of infatuation.
Another pointed look at my reflection in the mirror, followed by a glowering stare. Then I round things out with the ol’ two-fingers I got my eyes on you hand gesture, which is enough to get me on my feet.
I kick off my sandals and set about pulling on a pair of wool socks and my hiking boots, tightening the laces with a good tug and a double knot. The July sunshine means my shorts and tank top make sense for the weather, but I’ve learned the hard way that hiking at altitude can lead to a wicked sunburn before you expect it, so I slather on plenty of sunscreen to be safe. My day pack contains some rain gear, a water bottle and snacks, a spotting scope and my range finder, plus the action camera I’ll use to film some b-roll footage. In all, everything I need to do the extra scouting I’m here for, which is the reason for this little jaunt. At least that’s the line I’ve offered to anyone who inquired why I was suddenly taking a whirlwind weekend trip to Colorado.
I tug on a ball cap, pull my ponytail through the back, and sling my pack over one shoulder. After grabbing my sunglasses and the keys for the rinky-dink rental car I picked up at the airport, I give my reflection one more scolding look, knowing that will be enough to remind me what demands my attention these days. And pining after a broody game warden is not it. Even if all that irrational pining is what drew me out here this weekend, my career has to remain my priority because if I lose that, I’ll be on my own—with only a blech-worthy reality show to break my fall.
Opening the motel room door with a hard yank, I know the burst of sunshine on the other side of the door will redouble my efforts to focus on what matters: doing whatever it takes to save my show.
Minor problem, though.
A big body is blocking all those sunbeams.
I stop short with a gasp. Braden’s hand is upraised as if he was ready to knock on the door, but he lets it drop heavily when our eyes me
et, matching the move with a long exhale.
“Finally.” His eyes scan my face for a moment then begin a slow descent. “The kid at the desk wouldn’t give me your room number, like this is the goddam Four Seasons and he’s the head of security. I didn’t see your truck, so I was forced to start knocking on doors, which means I woke up more than one guy who smells like a half-empty beer bottle that’s been used as an ashtray.”
I raise my brows. “A more direct route might have been to text me back. Ask what room I was staying in.”
“Still wasn’t convinced you being here was real. That I wasn’t dreaming this up.”
“Dreaming it up? Sure it wasn’t a nightmare?”
Braden’s gaze has fixed on my bare legs, but his eyes now drift back up to mine. And say hello to the NC-17 look I was hoping for, because it’s right there.
Right. There.
Our eyes lock, and everything about Braden tenses, fighting what looks like the sudden urge to barrel through the doorway and give me the rest of what I had previously imagined.
“Definitely not a nightmare. Not even close.”
My lips part a fraction, in reaction and invitation, struck stupid by the reality of how much I want him—and how relieved I am to see the same on his face.
Braden’s voice becomes a touch stern. “Now explain yourself. Tell me what you’re doing here, why you didn’t tell me you were coming”—he pauses and works over a labored swallow—“and how long I have you for.”
All the sarcastic, mocking replies I’ve come to rely on with Braden go missing, just when I need them most. Instead, I take a moment to absorb the full picture of him, standing there in a pair of jogger pants and a graphic tee emblazoned with a logo for the clean supplement company I’d give anything to have an endorsement deal with. He has a ball cap on backward and his five-o’clock shadow is about twelve hours past.
I suspect he either was having a lazy snooze day or he was working out. And let me tell you, I’d love a chance to watch Braden work out. Even more so, I’d love to work out with Braden—and I don’t even mean it that way, I mean actually work out. Sweat it out together until we determine who can best who. I answer him almost robotically, while also imagining a very sweaty Braden trying to keep up with me.
“I’m here to get in one last scouting trip before season. I didn’t tell you because I wanted to see you, but I wasn’t sure what you’d say.” Braden’s jaw tenses, his hands flexing impatiently. “You have me for the next two nights.”
“Good.” Every inch of him relaxes slightly. “You headed for the trail right now? I have my day pack in my truck; we can go scout some of those game trails I sent you pictures of.”
“Absolutely,” I nod, giving him a smile, and eat up the way he very nearly smiles back. “Let’s go play in the woods together.”
Oh. My. God.
How did this happen? How?
How is this even possible? I ask silently, to every rock, tree, and bush in my path.
How did we not only manage to leave the motel but then drive to the trailhead and hit the dirt, all without greeting each other properly? And by “properly,” I mean groping and kissing until we’re nearly passed out.
That’s the sort of proper I’m interested in.
To boot, we’ve now made it three of five miles into a laborious hike where I’m bringing up the rear. Behind his rear. Braden’s very meaty but firm, sculpted, and mesmerizing rear. The one I’m currently too preoccupied with to feel entirely sure of my footing.
We come upon an especially steep section where a few large, jagged boulders interrupt the trail, unavoidable and inconvenient. When Braden clears them by taking long, max-incline StairMaster steps, then bounds over the last one with a nimble backside-becoming leap … I crack.
That’s it. I’m done.
Unwilling and unable to take another step, I come to a halt in the middle of the trail.
“Wait,” I blurt out.
Braden lurches to a stop and spins around. “What? You OK?”
I press a palm to my forehead. “No.”
He curses under his breath and starts his way back down the trail toward me.
“Sit down, head between your knees, and take deep breaths. How much water have you had today? You can’t mess around with this altitude, Amber. You have to take it easy and acclimatize yourself.”
“That’s not it.” I sigh.
I spy a smaller, flat boulder just a few paces off trail. Stomping that direction, I step atop it to put myself reasonably eye to eye with the man who’s now looking befuddled. I flick a hand toward my chest.
“Come here.”
Braden approaches with caution, keeping his hands gripped tightly to the shoulder straps on his pack, stopping too far away for what my objective is. I flick my hand again, jerky motions to match my impatience. He steps in to close the distance, his toes nudging the boulder I’m standing on while eyeing me warily.
“Kiss me,” I announce.
“What?”
I let out a frustrated rumble, trying to figure out where to begin, either in rationalizing my demand that he kiss me or my recent decisions in general. I set my hands on my hips.
“You have a great butt—you realize that, right? I mean, it’s great. I feel like I should be paying for the privilege to watch you hump it up this trail, it’s that good. And this is the second time I’ve been forced to walk behind you, trying not to stumble over my own feet. But at least last time you were wearing cargo pants and layered up for the weather. Today, though?” I wag a finger toward his jogger-clad lower half. “No relief.”
Braden’s lips part and he makes a garbled attempt to speak. I cut him off.
“We should’ve gotten this out of the way back at the motel, but we didn’t. I don’t really know why, but we didn’t. Doesn’t matter. The last time I saw you, your hand was up my shirt and we discussed sexing it up on your desk. Now I’m here again and I want to pick up where we left off. So don’t play dumb. Just kiss me.”
The hesitation written across his face a moment ago disappears. Even so, he doesn’t do what I’ve commanded. Instead, his parted lips press together and he studies me for a moment, every second that passes sending a thrill down my spine.
“Say it again,” he finally rumbles.
“Which part?” I counter.
Braden blinks once, slowly and deliberately, a wordless warning for me not to test his patience. A chaser of anticipation follows the earlier thrill that ran through me. I allow that sensation to fill my body until I’m equal parts emboldened and weak-kneed, like I’m suddenly the best kind of drunk—the sort that feels warm and good and worth whatever hangover comes later.
“Kiss. Me.”
A smirk creeps across Braden’s mouth, triumph mixed with unabashed want.
Based on that grin, I expect his mouth on mine instantly, in a rushed collision that’s as blundering as it is hot and wild.
But what I get is nothing like that. Instead, it’s the restrained advance of Braden leaning in slowly—in complete control—allowing our mouths to meet in a tease, his lower lip brushing over both of mine so lightly it drives a whimper from my throat.
That sound is his undoing. Braden sets his large hands to my waist and yanks me forward, nearly setting me off balance until his body becomes an anchor, my hands landing on his chest to steady myself, keeping them there even after, my fingertips digging in despite the T-shirt in my way. Our mouths fuse together, teeth nipping and tongues teasing. Braden’s grip slips down to my hips, then lower, then again. His hands settle where my thighs meet the hem of my admittedly short shorts. I tilt my hips back to encourage him, and his touch sneaks up underneath the cotton fabric, the rough pads on his fingertips gripping my ass like it belongs to him, and I want him to own it.
We break for air. For some relief. Braden’s hands stay put, retreating enough to fix our eyes to the other’s, searching. Braden’s chest is heaving, and I can feel it working against mine.
“More,” I whisper.
His eyes flare. “Here? As in, more more?”
I give him an overeager nod. Braden’s jaw drops open, pausing as he tries to find whatever words it is he’s looking for. He sucks in a long breath.
“I don’t make a habit of carrying condoms in my pack. Do you?”
My eyes drop closed. Damn the practicalities of safe sex. You’d think that since something like this was on my agenda, I’d have come prepared. But—insert tortured sigh—I did not.
“No.” I cut a look his way. “You don’t have one in your wallet?”
He shakes his head. I stamp my foot like a disappointed child, letting out a huff. Braden chuckles and tips our foreheads together. “Sorry.”
Another huff from me. “ ‘Sorry’ won’t cut it. I’m dying here.”
We stay silent, breathing in each other’s disappointment until Braden’s hands start to squeeze my backside, almost absentmindedly. I give in to a soft moan and circle my hips, hoping he’ll knead harder.
But he leans back instead, removes his hands from my behind, and casts a determined look to the area around us. I nearly stumble off the boulder when he grabs my hand in his, but my reflexes kick in as he drags us deep into the wooded area off trail, occasionally tossing a glance over his shoulder toward the main path. Twigs, leaves, and underbrush crunch beneath our feet as we edge down a small slope and into a stand of aspen trees. Sunlight dapples through the leaves, but the grove is still shaded, and when Braden comes to a stop a chill hits my skin. He shrugs off his pack and tosses it on the ground, then starts to help me out of mine before I have chance to catch up with what’s happening and my arms get tangled up slightly. Once he has my limbs sorted out from my pack, he drops it next to his and eyes me from head to toe.
“Hat off. Hair down. I want to get my hands in it.”
I balk only long enough to realize he’s dragged me here for a reason—so we can greet each other properly—then immediately find my mettle. I shoot him a firm look while doing what he asked, slinging my hat to the ground and yanking the elastic from my ponytail before shaking my hair out.
