by Lia Riley
“You’re Canadian?” I can’t ever tell their accents apart from the Yanks, but it seems a safe inroad and talking keeps her calm. Canadians are invariably pleased at the courtesy, and Americans never mind correcting. Doesn’t work half so well the other way around.
“No, American. From Colorado.”
“Small world. So’s my da,” I say with a grunt. “Lots of mountains there.” Think she’d have better sense in them.
She stops coughing long enough to ask, “Your father is from the US?”
“Aye. Gave me dual citizenship and all that.”
“But you’re English?”
Now here’s a sure way to hurt my finer feelings. “English?”
She makes a face, knowing she’s said something wrong even if she can’t quite put a finger on it. “Um… British? Sorry. I don’t really know the—”
“I’m Scottish.”
“Oh, right. I should have recognized. Who doesn’t love Braveheart?”
“The Mel Gibson movie?” Jesus. A headache gathers behind my eye sockets, the first twinge of a miserable throb. Next she’ll be asking if I wear a kilt or play “Scotland the Brave” on the bagpipes.
“I didn’t mean to make it sound like you guys run around yelling ‘Freedom’ or anything, but—”
“That we don’t,” I say curtly. Indulging in stereotypes about my country is one of my least favorite conversations. I shift and bump her outer thigh. Tension hums through me, an irrational slow burn. This is a real mess. No way can we avoid touching in such cramped quarters. I practically fill the tent on my own. “Your pants are wet.”
Her cheeks go tomato red. “Let me guess. You want them off, too?”
“Like I said, it’s no’ a question of want. It’s—”
“Fine.” She wiggles from her pants. Her knickers are yellow, have an outline of two kittens romping over the words “Take These Off Right Meow.”
“Here.” I gesture at my mat, my gut clenching. “Crawl into my sleeping bag.”
Her sigh becomes a gasp. “I hate being a nuisance.”
“Then do us both a favor and don’t go into a hypothermic coma.”
“Trying my best,” she mutters, sliding past.
Stop staring at her arse.
Instead I focus on her red-painted toes—one is encircled by a thin silver band. Pressure builds in my hips, radiates to my stomach, and then sinks lower, but her rattling exhalation refocuses me in an instant. Being single-minded has its uses. “What’s wrong with your breathing?”
“I have asthma. Cold often exacerbates the symptoms.” She coughs again. “Can you please go in my bag and get out my peak meter?”
“What’s that?”
“It measures my lung function. You’ll find it in the top pocket. There’s lots of numbers on the front.”
Good. A job. I’m always better with something useful to do. “Too easy.” It’s the first thing I see in her pack, and I pass it over.
“Thanks.” She lifts the contraption to her mouth and blows. It doesn’t sound like she’s trying; or rather, it sounds like she’s tried too hard and hardly any air remains. Somehow my hand finds its way to her shoulder.
Her face snaps to mine, defensive, confused, and something else, not coy, nothing like that, just… Bugger all. I wasn’t making a move, just trying to give a little piss-poor human comfort. I yank my hand away, ignoring the fact my stomach muscles are twisting and not altogether unpleasantly or that the feel of her has tattooed itself on my palm. I mentally shake myself.
Get it together, man.
She stares through veiled lashes, giving a single wide-eyed blink, her gaze brighter than a moment ago. At least before she turns to check the reading. “Shit.”
“Bad?”
“Not good.” She circles her thumb around the pads of her pointer and middle finger.
I recognize that nervous habit. During our climbs, I’d often find myself aimlessly finger snapping in the tent, until Cameron would ask when I planned on auditioning for West Side Story. The smart-arse.
“Do you take medication?”
“Albuterol.” She tries to keep worry from her expression, but I see it there, hovering on the edge of her fine features all the same. “I keep it in the same pocket.”
I reopen her pack, rifling through chocolate bars and loose tampons. Jesus, someone put me out of my bloody misery. I fist the purple canister and shove it in her direction, dreading she’ll graze my fingers and hoping she does. Jesus Christ.
“Sorry. That one’s a steroid for mornings. Albuterol is the light blue one.”
More digging, past birth control pills, and—I swallow hard—condoms. “OK. Here we go, light blue.”
I pass her the inhaler and she shakes it, exhaling before setting the opening to her mouth, pressing and holding her breath. She does this for a few more puffs before lowering it with a sigh.
“Better?” I ask.
“It will help.” She fidgets. “Makes me jittery though. Just need to focus on my breathing and—” A clap of thunder sounds, as if the sky wrenches in two. A strangled squeak escapes her. “Sorry. I don’t like s-s-storms.”
Even in my sleeping bag and dry shirt, her teeth chatter. If she balked at my request to undress, she’s going to go ape over this. Fuck it. There isn’t a choice.
“Auden.”
A thin furrow appears between her brows. “Yeah?”
My stomach tightens. “I’m going to warm you.”
“How?” Her eyes widen.
I can’t hold her gaze and say what I must. “Body-to-body contact.”
The world outside rips apart, but in the tent, a heavy silence reigns. She shifts to a half sit. “Oh, no, it’s OK. Look, I’ll be better in a few minutes.”
“You said yourself the cold makes your asthma worse.”
“Yes, but—”
“I know you don’t have a reason to trust me. In fact, if this were normal circumstances, I’d no’ recommend it. But here we are.”
“Nothing about today is normal.” She slowly reclines to the mat, folding her arms across her chest like a mummy, eyes screwed shut.
“No harm’s going to come to you.” It sounds as if I’m making a solemn oath.
She opens one eye, gives me an unfathomable look, before closing it again. I’m not used to a woman regarding me like something to endure. Uncertainty weaves through me.
I ease beside her. “This’ll go easier if you turn to the side.” Away from me.
“Good idea.” She rolls to face the tent wall. Her features are hidden, but I can hear each uneven breath, the slightly shuddering inhalation followed by a pause before giving way to a raspy exhalation.
She remains still when I reach, warily securing a handhold on her ribs, their sudden rise and fall the only sign of her silent gasp. “This all right?”
She utters no reply, only gives a brief nod, and grips the sleeping bag tighter.
“Everything will be fine, I promise you.” I keep my voice cool, aloof. Give no sign that my chest aches, as if instead of a heart, a great wallowing drunk stumbles about. I never cuddle. Prior to my last girlfriend, Sadie, my dealings with the opposite sex were kept to simple and straightforward shags. Occasionally girls tried to compete with the mountains, but they never stood a chance.
Auden gives another tentative nod, and her scent invades my senses, simple and straightforward, a hint of sweat from exertion, combined with the fresh fragrance of rain. She begins to settle, her violent shiver attacks growing fewer and further between, same with her coughing fits. I keep my pose rigid, controlled, resisting the mad urge to relax into her body as blood pounds thickly in my ears. I can’t do this, be with another person, be human. I need to be a machine. A robot with one goal and one goal alone. To conquer a mountain like La Aguja there can be no room left inside me for any other desire.
When my mind quiets and other wants are eliminated, my attention naturally focuses on visualizing the climb. Once on the rock, this single-min
ded concentration will translate effortlessly into correct hand-and footholds or gear placements. In order to climb like you are the only person in the world, you can’t care about anything other than living in the moment. There can be no significant other in the mind’s periphery wielding the power to distract.
Outside the wind shakes the nylon, redoubling its assault. Zipped tight, shut away from the world, we could be anywhere. I’d always appreciated that about tents, how once inside, you became the ruler of your own cramped kingdom of cast-off socks, sleeping bags, and carefully chosen gear. This time in Valle del Frances, away from the scene at the main climbing camp, is meant to be a chance to establish a cease-fire in the battle with myself. Being in a tent, in the wilderness, far from a world I don’t understand and that sure as hell doesn’t understand me, is calming.
Now Auden Woods has come along and triggered a whole new conflict with her icy blue eyes.
Icy blue eyes? Looks like prolonged abstinence brings out a lad’s poetic side. If she looks back, she’ll see my mouth twisted in a humorless smile.
She doesn’t, though. She’s too busy trembling, and so I gather her closer, an unfamiliar protective sensation welling inside me. “Better?” I whisper, more a hoarse croak than anything gallant.
“Yes,” she says, turning, her full lips slightly parting to offer the word.
We’re two strangers, haven’t even shaken hands, and yet our bodies press flush. Despite every intention, mine starts to react, and Christ, quick, what are unsexy topics to ponder? When in doubt, go for geology. The Andes are the result of which type of plate boundary?
Conquering La Aguja is going to take all my mental resources. The next few days are needed for getting focused, concentrated, and prepared for the challenge ahead. Auden shifts, drawing closer, and my next breath is almost as ragged as hers.
Aye, this girl is just the sort of distraction that could ruin everything.
7
AUDEN
I traveled to Torres del Paine as an aspiring journalist on the hunt for a career-making story, but getting what I wanted might be more than I can handle. Suddenly, I’m a half-naked girl snuggled against a stranger with the kind of face I’d pin to my “Sexy Men” Pinterest page. My next shiver isn’t from the cold. I’m normally not a huge facial hair fan, but Rhys’s dark scruff only serves to amplify those eyes. Seriously, who has irises like that? I can’t even begin to describe the color, not a brown or even a green. Hazel is probably the correct definition, but there is lots of yellow, too, and the overall effect is nothing short of intense.
Theoretically, forced proximity with a hot guy should be an amazing stroke of luck worth throwing a mental ticker-tape parade over. Scratch that. Calling this guy hot is like describing Godzilla as a cute gecko. I’ve never encountered an actual six-pack in real life. How would those muscles feel under my fingertips? If given the opportunity, I’d take my sweet time, trace each one, and commit the entire experience to memory.
Wait? What am I doing?
Stop mentally fondling the abs of the guy who’s been forced to rescue you.
I lick my lips, not that the gesture does much—my mouth is bone dry. The only reason we’re together is because I’m an underprepared idiot who forced myself into his personal space. He’s probably rolling his eyes behind my back, hoping I’ll beat it at first light.
“Auden.” The way he says my name, I can tell without looking that he’s frowning. He seems to excel at that particular expression. His features are broody perfection. “You’re tense. Why?”
The silent Scot is going to engage? Thank God because I can’t bear lying here, surrounded by a howling storm, uncomfortably aware of his big body pressed hard against me. “Well…” I clear my throat, unable to dish up the truth. “Wandering into strange forests à la Little Red Riding Hood can have that effect on a girl.”
“If you’re Red Riding Hood, lass, then what does that make me?” Is it my imagination, or does his lilting accent take on growly edge? “The wolf or the woodcutter?”
“Guess that depends on how much you want to eat me?” My eyes widen in the dark. I didn’t say that out loud, did I?
Did I?
He shakes behind me in silent laughter as another thunder boom reverberates through the mountains.
Hello, Thor? It’s me, Auden. Please end my blabbering misery with a merciful lightning bolt.
“You’re a funny one.”
I turn to face him. “Funny ha, or funny weird?” The indent above his top lip is incredibly cute, as top lip indents go, but why? Hard to say, especially when further investigation means staring like a creeper.
“Both.” The corner of his mouth jerks up, albeit a little unwillingly. “Tell me, how did you come to find yourself in Patagonia?”
“I wanted to see La Aguja, the dream-making mountain.”
His retreat is subtle, only a few inches, but the sudden tension is obvious. “Why? You’re no’ a climber?”
“Nope. A journalist.”
“Journalist?”
What’s with that salty tone? Is he afraid I’m part of the grammar police or extra nosy? “Aspiring anyway,” I confess. “I’m doing a story on the dream maker mountain.” A thought occurs to me. “Wait, are you here for the rumored good-weather window on La Aguja?”
“Aye.” His voice is cold and his gaze avoids mine, fixes into the corner of the tent, giving the merest hint of an indrawn breath.
I place my hand to the tent wall, and the force of the wind presses against my palm. An interesting stroke of luck. I wonder if he’d take part in my story. Landing the position at Outsider was a great first step, but the only way to land the paid job means writing a kick-ass feature. I need to do this, to make a name for myself. Otherwise I might live my whole life letting Harper make one for me. I don’t want to be the butt of her jokes forever, and if I can’t be remarkable, I can build a solid career writing about people who are.
Busting out and asking Rhys to star in my story probably isn’t the wisest move. I need to play this just right, and he strikes me as the sort who requires some buttering up first. Better to ask in the morning, after he’s had a good night’s sleep. “Think the storm will let up tonight?”
“Nah. We’re in for it.”
“If I hadn’t come, you’d have been up here all alone?”
“I like my own company.” His tone is still tight.
“Do you really?” I dare another peek at his face. Rhys MacAskill, that name. Something about it niggles my subconscious, a weird déjà vu, like I’ve heard it before.
He freezes a moment before his low chuckle turns my bones to jelly. My cheeks warm. “No, wait, that didn’t come out right.” I play up the goofy, wanting to hear that infectious laugh again. “I get that you’d rather be alone, and my presence makes you a little grumpy—”
“Hold up. You’re calling me grumpy now?” He rolls his r’s with emotion. The effect would be ten kinds of charming if my nerves weren’t making me ramble.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. Everything keeps coming out all wrong.” I fall over my words in the rush to apologize. He’s a grump but not a dick or anything. “You actually rescued me, which makes you kind of a hero—”
“That’s enough, lass.” His shoulders nearly slam into his ears, and boom, just like that, his playful mood vanishes. Shadows slant over his grim face as he waves a hand, a muscle twitching in his jaw even as he attempts a smile.
I press two fingers against his ever-present forehead furrow, smoothing it out. He jerks in surprise, and I drop my hand, clearing my throat. We might be stuck together, but that’s no excuse to get handsy. “In all seriousness though, I should be thanking you. After all, I barged into your tent, got pretty much naked, hogged your sleeping bag, sat on—” There’s a book spine gouging the side of my hip. “Hello, what’s this?” I pull it out. “Heart of Darkness. Whoa, not exactly light campfire reading.” I can’t resist poking. “The horror! The horror! I had to read this at s
chool and it was basically a slow death by metaphor.”
No response, but he doesn’t seem impressed by my literary assessment.
A letter falls out onto my stomach. “Give me that.” He snatches it and the book, sliding the letter between the back pages and setting it to his side, protective as a dragon guarding his hoard.
“Careful,” I mutter. “Keep making that face, it’ll get stuck that way.”
“I’ll take that under advisement,” he says with a snort.
Smart-ass. His forearm flexes, each muscle clearly defined. Fine, smart-ass with beautiful arms. Looks like climbing does a body good. Imagine what it would be like to cling to stone, knowing your survival relied solely upon your own strength and wits. “Do you ever get afraid? When you’re up high?”
“Yes,” he says simply, before crawling to his knees, literally giving me the shoulder. “I’m going to fix some tea. Want a cuppa?” He moves without waiting for a response. Pots bang and water pours, followed by the low hum of a stove. After a few minutes he’s back, and so is his subtle spicy scent, bay rum, seductive and undeniably masculine.
There’s some invisible weight settled over him, but why? All I know is that asking him personal questions is akin to tiptoeing over a river of thin ice.
The weight of his arm returns to settle heavily across my lower belly. He places a stainless-steel mug of tea beside me, and I breathe as deeply as my lungs allow. Peppermint vapors are nice, relaxing even. Maybe it’s a placebo, but research has proven certain smells decrease stress and that helps reduce inflammation.
I take a tentative sip and almost moan as the warm liquid hits my stomach. “Oh, wow, that’s good.” I half sit and give him a small smile. “Thank you.”
The headlamp leaves his face in shadow but shines directly on his broad bare chest. Dark hair dusts between his defined pecs, sharpening into an arrow that cuts across his abdomen, pointing lower. “Careful now.” He frowns at my tremble. “It’s hot.”
Yeah, it is. Goose bumps break out over my arms. Why am I freezing and he’s shirtless? “Shit.” Tea splashes against my shirt, right on the boob. It burns and oh, God, my nipple peeks through the thin white fabric like someone’s rubbed a foggy window to peer outside.
