The Simple Wild

by K. A. Tucker

  “Yeah, maybe.” My sleepless night has everything to do with Jonah, but less to do with the crash and more to do with his potential wrath when he wakes up and finds he’s been shorn like a farm animal. Will he laugh it off or will we be back to square one in our relationship—mutual loathing? “Anyway, I figured I might as well get an early start to the day. With you.”

  “Nothing wrong with that.” He pours himself a cup from the pot and takes a sip.

  And starts choking. “How many spoonfuls did you put in?”

  “Whatever the package said. Is it bad?”

  He presses his lips together and shakes his head, and then says in a tight voice, “It’s great.”

  I give him a flat look. “You’re lying.”

  “It might be a tad bit strong.” He smiles as he takes another sip, turning away to hide his grimace.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know how to make coffee. You don’t have to finish it.”

  “You kidding?” Another forced sip, followed by a fake thirst-quenching sound. “My daughter made this here cup just for me. Damn straight I’m gonna drink it.”

  I’m lost in laughter as I mix my own cup—extra heavy on the soy milk—and watch him force down the rest of it, alternating between dramatic cringes and full body shudders. Setting his dish in the sink, he grabs his vest and keys. “Well, if I wasn’t awake before . . .”

  I trail him out the door and toward his truck.

  “Those are nice.” He admires my red Hunter boots with a smile and nods at the red flannel jacket from Jonah, folded over my arm. “And they match.”

  “Shockingly. At least I finally have something appropriate to wear.” I’d dug out my favorite ripped blue jeans, coupling them with my silvery off-the-shoulder knit shirt and matching lace bra.

  “You had every right to be frustrated. It takes some getting used to, the way things work around here.”

  My luggage problems weren’t on account of Alaska, I want to say. They had everything to do with the sleeping giant next door.

  Both our gazes fall on the quiet yellow house.

  “Wonder how he’s feeling this morning,” my dad murmurs. He climbs into the driver’s side, slamming the door shut behind him. The engine comes to life.

  I round the hood of the truck, unable to steer my eyes away from Jonah’s house. My breath catches as I think, maybe, the gauzy kitchen curtain shifted. Just a touch.

  But it’s six a.m. Jonah’s not up yet, I assure myself.

  Still, I scuttle into my seat and buckle my seat belt, my guilty conscience not abated.

  My dad’s hands are on the steering wheel, but he makes no move to drive. “Maybe one of us should stick our head in and check on him.”

  “Shouldn’t we let him sleep, though? It’s early.” My fingertips drum over my knee at a rushed pace as I keep my eyes forward.

  I feel the suspicious gleam in his gaze as he regards me. “Are you sure you’re okay, Calla? You’re acting twitchy.”

  “Am I?” I say nonchalantly. “Must be that coffee.”

  “No. This started last night.” He hesitates. “Did something happen between you two?”

  I can’t take it anymore. “Besides me finding my luggage on Jonah’s porch?” Which will be my official excuse when I’m questioned for my crime.

  My dad’s eyes widen. “Jonah had your luggage?”

  “Hiding under a blanket.”

  My dad heaves a sigh of exasperation. “That son-of-a . . . I’ll have a talk with— Oh, looks like he is up.” He nods toward Jonah’s door as it eases open.

  My stomach clenches.

  “I’ll go over there later and make sure he . . .” His words drift as a stiff-bodied Jonah steps out onto the porch in the same sweatpants and T-shirt he fell asleep in. We’re too far away to make out the stitched gash on his forehead.

  I’m not, however, too far away to read the stony gaze in his eyes as he turns his attention to us, his muscular arms folded over his broad chest.

  To glare at me.

  Silence hangs inside the truck for several beats, my dad’s eyebrows sitting halfway up his forehead.

  Finally . . . “Calla, how long after Jonah fell asleep did you stay?”

  “Not sure,” I mutter, averting my gaze to the road. His tone is mild, but I can’t for the life of me read it.

  “And . . . what was it you said you did, again? Worked on the website, fed Bandit, and then . . . Oh, yeah, you looked at Jonah’s book collection. That’s all?”

  “Yup,” I lie with as much conviction in my voice as I can muster.

  “There’s nothing I’m forgetting.”

  “Definitely, nothing. But we should get going. Like, right now.” I finally dare look over, to find my dad pursing his lips together tight, doing a poor job of smothering his grin.

  “Yes, I think you’re right.” He throws his truck into gear. We lurch into motion and begin heading down the driveway, swerving to miss the deeper of the potholes.

  Dead silence fills the truck.

  And then, “Those muscle relaxers they gave him must be strong,” he muses.

  “So strong,” I agree.

  My dad’s gaze burns into my profile, until I can’t ignore it any longer. I turn to meet his eyes, to see the twinkle dancing in them.

  We burst out with laughter. My own is mixed with an overwhelming wave of relief. My dad doesn’t seem to be angry with me, at least.

  By the time the truck reaches the main road, my dad is struggling through a coughing fit, brought on by his mirth. “Oh, Calla . . . You’ve really asked for it now.”

  “He deserved it!”

  “Yeah, I’d say so. But Jonah always has to have the last word. He’s not gonna let you get away with this.”

  I fold my arms over my chest stubbornly. “He should be thanking me. Now people can see his face.”

  My dad’s brow lifts curiously. “And seeing his face is a good thing?”

  “He’s less likely to be trapped in a cage and brought to the zoo.” Do they even have a zoo in Alaska? I doubt it.

  Dad bursts out in another round of gut-wrenching laughter. “For a while there, I was thinking something might have happened between you two. You know, with the tension from the accident and all. Maybe you two . . . you know . . .” He gives me a look.

  My cheeks begin to burn. “That’s what you were thinking happened last night?”

  “I mean, it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. He’s smart, and hardworking. Seems pretty popular with the ladies.” He chuckles nervously. “A father can hope, can’t he?”

  What did he just say? Is my father actually hoping that Jonah and I hook up?

  Me and Jonah?

  A flash of that face last night—a peaceful, handsome Jonah in slumber—hits me. I shove it aside. “I’m not falling for some sky cowboy,” I say resolutely.

  Dad chuckle-coughs. “God, Calla, you remind me so much of your mother sometimes.”

  “That’s what she called the pilots up here,” I admit sheepishly.

  “Yeah, well . . . can’t say she’s wrong as far as Jonah’s concerned. It’s probably for the best, anyway. You don’t need to be repeating our mistakes,” he murmurs, turning into the road that leads to Alaska Wild.

  Chapter 18

  Agnes’s eyes squint as she leans in and scrutinizes my computer screen. “I like the other one better.”

  I toggle back to the first picture-framing option.

  “Yes. That one. It reminds me of a postcard.” Agnes stands and slides her glasses off. “It’s really coming along, Calla. And fast.”

  I lock the setting. “I should have it up in another day or two.”

  “You make it look so easy.”

  “It is easy, I swear. I’ll show you how to do everything. And if there’s anything you need
help with, I’m always just an email away.” How odd it is that only a week ago, we were emailing as complete strangers, yet to meet.

  My phone rings then, and Diana’s sardonic duck-lip selfie fills the screen. “I’ve got to take this,” I murmur, climbing from my seat. I knew the call was coming. The text I sent her ten minutes ago would have her frothing at the mouth for details. “Do you want me to grab you a water?”

  Agnes waves it off with a “no thanks,” and returns to her desk.

  Taking a deep breath, I answer my phone, thankful that the staff room is empty for the moment.

  “You did not!” Diana gasps, in a shocked “I can’t believe you did that!” way.

  “The yeti is no longer a yeti.”

  “Oh my God, Calla! How angry is he?”

  “I’m not exactly sure yet.”

  “Do you remember that time Keegan passed out drunk and his team shaved his—”

  “Yes, and eww! Please don’t bring that story up ever again.” Diana’s brother is like a brother to me, and the mental picture is still disturbing on so many levels, years later.

  “Okay, I’m hiding in the mailroom and I have, like, thirty more seconds before Beef Stick comes looking for me,” she whispers conspiratorially, and I’m picturing the tall blonde bombshell crouching behind the photocopier in her pencil skirt. “I don’t have time for specifics right now. Just give me the final verdict.”

  “The final verdict is . . .” I open the fridge and begin testing the bottles of water to find the coldest one. “He’s hot.”

  “Really? Like how hot?”

  “You know that Viking fitness model guy’s profile page I showed you a couple of weeks ago?” Pretty much the only guy with a full beard that I’ve ever found attractive.

  She moans her confirmation.

  “Yeah, like that. Only better.”

  “Tell me you got a picture.”

  “No!” I scoff. “I’m not going to take a picture of the guy while he’s drugged unconscious!”

  “Really, Calla? That’s the line you drew?” she mocks.

  I cringe at myself. “I know.”

  “So, he’s hot but he’s still a jerk, right?”

  “Yeah, total jerk. I mean, not really. Sometimes he’s totally a jerk and I want to punch him in the face,” I amend. “And then other times . . . I don’t mind him at all, actually.” I’m not even as angry as I was last night anymore. Now I’m more focused on the growing tension that gnaws at my gut.

  What if Jonah is genuinely pissed at me? What if he wants nothing to do with me anymore?

  “So are you two gonna hook up?”

  “What?” I squeal. “No!”

  “He’s hot and you have no emotional attachment to him. Perfect rebound material.”

  “I . . . No!” God, first my father, now my best friend? “Hookups aren’t my thing—you know that.” I’m either not able to detach my heart from the situation and end up hurt or I decide that I don’t like the guy and end up full of regret. “Besides, he likes leggy blondes. You come up here and sleep with him.”

  “Come on. You need a rebound.”

  “Trust me, I don’t. I haven’t given Corey a second’s thought since I’ve been here.” Which only proves I didn’t make a mistake in ending it when I did.

  “Good! So then do the Viking!”

  “I am not doing the Viking!” I burst out laughing, realizing how much I miss her. “I wouldn’t even know where to start with him.” How does a woman initiate something with a guy like Jonah, who’s as likely to laugh at her for her attempts as throw her caveman-style onto the bed? She’d have to have a brass-coated spine just to try.

  Diana groans. “Ugh. Beef Stick’s calling my name. His voice is so annoying, I’ve started having nightmares. Gotta go now. Go and get this guy. And then call me tonight. We need to plan out the next week. Calla & Dee can’t just be all Dee while you’re off, flying around with your hot Viking.”

  “I know, I’m sorry. Things have been crazy around here.” Calla & Dee has fallen by the wayside in my thoughts, right next to my ex-boyfriend. “And no, I’m not hooking up with Jonah.” Satisfied that I’ve found the coldest water, I hip-check the fridge door. “That would be a bad idea— Ahhh!”

  Jonah is standing a foot away.

  “Call you later,” I mumble, and hit End.

  As handsome as he was last night, freshly groomed and peaceful in slumber, the sight of him towering over me now, the muscles in his cut jaw clenching as he pins me down with steely blue eyes, is as awe-inspiring as it is intimidating. His beard remains unruffled, and his hair, though somewhat disheveled, holds its volume like I intended.

  He doesn’t appear to be at all amused.

  How long has he been listening to my conversation?

  My face is burning. I attempt to regain my composure while I reach down to pick up the water bottle that slipped from my grasp in my shock. “You’re supposed to be at home, resting,” I say, trying to sound casual.

  “I felt a compelling need to visit.” His light voice is a stark contrast to his icy gaze.

  My eyes flicker toward the stitches on his forehead. They should heal nicely, but even if they don’t, something tells me Jonah can don an unsightly scar and still be attractive.

  There’s a tidily folded piece of paper in Jonah’s giant paw, which he calmly unfolds. “ ‘Dear Jonah. This is for the toy plane that wouldn’t fit my luggage, for stealing my luggage, for not helping me get beer for my dad . . .’ ” He reads off his list of misdemeanors from the note I left, and I get caught up in watching his shapely lips move. How do they look soft, when so many of the words that come out of them are coarse? “ ‘. . . for defacing my father’s duck wallpaper, if that was you . . .’ ”

  I keep forgetting to ask my dad about that, but something tells me it has Jonah’s signature all over it.

  Those lips finally curl into a smile. My eyes flit up to find his—crap, he caught me admiring his mouth—as he recites the last line from memory: “ ‘Lastly, for crashing Betty and scaring me to death.’ ”

  My heart pounds in my chest. I don’t know why I added that last line. It certainly wasn’t his fault that Betty went down.

  Just as calmly and methodically, he folds the page up and tucks it into his back pocket, the move stretching his gray T-shirt across his chest, highlighting hard curves that I try—and fail miserably—not to stare at.

  I struggle to twist off the cap on my water bottle, unable to find my strength for a grip.

  Jonah wordlessly slips it from my hands. The sound of snapping plastic fills the room.

  “So, how long did it take for you to work up the nerve to do it?”

  I push aside my worries about what he might have overheard to level him with a flat, accusatory look. “No time at all, after I found my luggage hidden on your porch next to your raccoon.”

  “Yeah, thanks for feeding Bandit, by the way.” He hands me back my water bottle, our fingers sliding over each other’s in the exchange.

  “How long have you had my things?”

  “Since I flew back to Anchorage the next night to get them,” he admits casually, without hesitation or a hint of remorse.

  “But that’s . . . You mean you’ve had my clothes sitting on your porch since Monday?” I punctuate the word with a smack against his arm.

  He flinches and then reaches for his sore shoulder.

  “Sorry,” I wince, my anger dampened a touch. “And what, you got Billy to lie for you?”

  “Nah. He had no idea I took ’em. He’s been shitting himself and finding excuses, hoping they’d turn up.”

  I shake my head. “You’re such an asshole.”

  Jonah’s gaze skitters over my bare collarbone, stalling at the decorative lace strap of my bra. “You survived, didn’t you?”

  “So
, what, you were trying to prove a point?”

  “Didn’t I?”

  I sigh. “Just when I was starting to like you . . .”

  A deep bellow of laughter sails from his lips and knowing eyes search my face. “Oh, I think you like me just fine today.”

  My cheeks flame again. Seriously, how much did he hear!

  I move to get around him, to distance myself, but he smoothly steps forward, into my space, thwarting my escape. Making my pulse begin to race.

  “You know it’ll just grow back.”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  He smirks. “Unfortunate for whom?”

  “For the people of Alaska. Thankfully I’ll be long gone by then.”

  Jonah reaches up. I stiffen at the first sensation of his fingers fumbling with strands of my hair.

  “What are you doing?” I ask warily, even as my body reacts to his subtle touch, shivers running down my arms and along my collarbone, skittering over my chest.

  “I was just curious what your hair felt like. It’s soft.” He frowns thoughtfully. “And so long. It must have taken years to grow.”

  “Not really. I’ve never had it short.”

  “Never?”

  Unease slips down my spine. “Never.”

  “Hmm . . . I think it would look good short.” He coils his fist around it to form a ponytail at the back, his fingertips grazing the nape of my neck ever so gently. “Short like Aggie’s.”

  “I don’t have the right shape of face.” I clear my throat against the wobble in my voice.

  His intense gaze searches my forehead, my cheekbones, my jawline, as if evaluating my claim. “I’m sure you have enough makeup to fix that.”

  “I know what you’re doing.”

  With a light tug, he releases his grip on my hair. “And what am I doing?”

  “Trying to scare me into thinking you’re going to get even by cutting off my hair.”

  He mock-frowns. “What? Like, sneak into your bedroom while you’re asleep with a pair of scissors? I’d never do that. I’m not some sicko.”

  “I did not sneak into your bedroom,” I snap. “And it’s not like I disfigured you. I helped you.”