The Simple Wild

by K. A. Tucker

  “Helped me?” he repeats.

  “Yes. Maybe now you have a shot at getting laid. As long as you don’t speak.”

  The wicked smile he flashes makes my throat go dry. “Do you think I have problems in that department, Calla?”

  “I mean with two-legged creatures.” You arrogant son of a bitch, you totally stood there and listened to my conversation. My comeback might have been piercing and quick, but it’s too late. He has a solid upper hand on me, because he knows as well as I do that, despite everything, last night’s vengeful grooming session has caused a totally unpredicted side effect.

  I’m now unmistakeably attracted to the yeti.

  God, this feels like the ninth grade all over again. Billy Taylor, the captain of the hockey team, found out I had a maddening crush on him. The feelings weren’t mutual—Keegan gently passed on the message—but my little-girl infatuation became a source for teasing from his friends, and I spent the entire school year ducking into classrooms and hiding behind taller students every time I spotted him in the halls.

  That was the last time I ever let it slip that I might be interested in a guy before knowing that he was definitely interested in me.

  And the major difference here is that Billy Taylor was a nice guy who never embarrassed me about it.

  Jonah is not Billy Taylor.

  “George said he saw you come in here.” Agnes’s sudden voice cuts into the tension. She rounds the table and wanders over to stand next to us. “You should have stayed home to rest.” As usual, Agnes’s scolding is weak, at best. I don’t know how she’s going to keep Mabel in line. Then again, how much trouble can a teenager get into around here, with no bars to frequent and alcohol difficult to find?

  Still, her entrance feels like a timely rescue. “That’s exactly what I just finished saying to him,” I murmur, trying to regain some semblance of dignity.

  “So . . . You’re trying out a new look there?” she asks mildly, the corners of her mouth twitching. I didn’t mention my transgression to her, but my father must have.

  “Apparently,” Jonah finally says. “Calla decided she needed a change.”

  “It suits you.” Agnes’s dark eyes flash to me and widen, the unspoken warning in them clear. Do you realize what kind of hell you’ve invited into your life, you foolish girl?

  “It does suit him, doesn’t it?” I make a point of cocking my head and letting my eyes drag along his jawline in an admiring way. “My neighbor’s sheepdog always looks much better after getting clipped, too. And it helps with the fleas.”

  Agnes snorts.

  I can’t even begin to read the look that takes over Jonah’s face as his eyes burn holes into mine, but it’s made my stomach roll and my blood race all the same.

  “Sharon wanted to see me about something,” I lie, sidestepping around him. I stroll for the door, forcing my legs to move slowly, so as not to look like the sprinting chicken that I truly am.

  Chapter 19

  “Damn rain. Makes everything so damp,” my dad mutters through another cough, his gray gaze on the living room window and the porch screen beyond, soaked by the steady rainfall. It started as a light sprinkle around two this afternoon—earlier than expected—and quickly evolved into a hard downpour that grounded the rest of the flights. Sharon’s husband, Max, is stranded in Nome for the night, much to her dismay. “At least they’re saying the worst of it should be moved out by tomorrow afternoon. Let’s hope, anyway.” Cough, cough.

  “Can I ask you a serious question?”

  It’s a moment before my dad answers. “Sure, kiddo.” The endearment is there, but the reluctance in his voice is unmistakeable.

  “Do you have a thing for Julia Roberts?”

  “Uh . . .” He lets out a shaky sigh of relief and then chuckles. “I don’t know. Do I?”

  I know what he was afraid of: that I was going to push for information about his diagnosis, his prognosis. That I wanted to know if these frequent coughing fits he’s had the last couple of days are more than on account of damp air and running through a field. The truth is, though, I’m finding lately that I want to think about and talk about the coming battle as much as he does: not at all.

  “You have every single movie she’s ever been in, in both VHS and DVD. So, yeah, I’m pretty sure you have a thing for her.”

  A thoughtful smile stretches my dad’s lips. “Her laugh. It reminds me of Susan’s laugh.”

  I frown as the Pretty Woman movie credits roll along the TV screen, trying to recall the sound. “I never made the connection, but you’re right, it does, kind of.” Mom has one of those show-stopping laughs, an infectious melody that carries through rooms and cuts strangers’ sentences short as they search for the source.

  “You know, that’s what made me introduce myself to her that night. I heard her before I saw her. And then I saw her and I thought, ‘I’ve got to get up the nerve to meet that woman, if it’s the last thing I ever do.’ ” He studies his hands in quiet thought for a moment. “She was probably living up here six months or so when I first noticed I hadn’t heard that laugh in a while.”

  “Do you still love her?”

  “Oh, kiddo. What your mom and me had . . .” His voice drifts as he shakes his head.

  “I know. It was never going to work. It can’t work. It will never work. I get it. But do you still love her?”

  He pauses for a long moment. “I’ll always love her. Always. I wish that was enough, but it’s not. For a while there, I believed she’d have a change of heart and fly back. You know, spend a few months with her family and then come back to me, after the thaw.”

  “And she was hoping you’d have a change of heart and fly out to us.”

  “Yeah. Well . . . like I said, we were never gonna work. I’m glad she found someone who’s good for her. And you.”

  “What about you?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Another woman.”

  “Oh.” He hesitates. “I did try once, with someone else who means a lot to me. But we both figured out pretty quick that it’s hard to make things work when another woman is already taking up center stage. It wouldn’t be fair to anyone, to have to compete, and I don’t seem in any rush to move on. I guess marriage just ain’t for me.”

  “Are you talking about Agnes?”

  “Jeez.” He rubs his eyes and then chuckles. “You really are grilling me tonight, aren’t you?”

  “Sorry.”

  “No, don’t be. It’s good that we’re talking about this. It’s important to talk. I wish I had talked more, way back when.” He sighs. “Mabel wasn’t even two, so she doesn’t remember. It wasn’t ever anything official or big. Just some long talks, some ideas that maybe something could be evolving.”

  “And then it didn’t?”

  My dad’s lips press together in thought. “Agnes is everything I should want in a wife. She’s kind, and funny, and patient. She loves her family, and Alaska. She takes care of me even though I don’t ask her to. I honestly don’t know what I’d do without her. She’ll make someone an incredible wife one day.”

  I wait for the “but” that I sense hanging in the air. Though I think I’ve already heard it before.

  Yeah, well . . . I’m not Susan. That’s what Agnes said my first night. She didn’t sound bitter. More like resigned to the fact.

  My dad sighs. “I keep telling her that she should find someone. There’s been interest from other men. But she’s never given them the time of day. I think she’s getting as set in her ways as I am. So . . . we all just keep living like we do.”

  “I think it’s nice, the way things work around here. The way you all look out for each other. I mean, Mabel brings you dinner . . . you leave a pot of coffee out for Jonah every morning . . . It’s nice. It’s like family.”

  “Yeah, well . . .” He scratches the gray stubble coat
ing his chin. “They are my family.”

  “I’m glad to know you have people here who care about you.” Who will take care of you after I’m gone. “And that I got to know them.”

  His mouth curves in a thoughtful frown. “Even Jonah?”

  “Even him,” I admit reluctantly, adding an eye roll. Jonah, who thankfully seemed to be giving me a wide berth today as he helped my dad and Agnes rework flights after yesterday’s delays, while I hid in a corner with my headphones on, finishing Wild’s “history” page with a picture of my grandparents standing beside the first plane they ever bought.

  Pretending I didn’t notice every time he strolled by.

  “Well, that’s something.” With a yawn, he shimmies out of his chair and reaches into his vest pocket. “Listen, I’m gonna step outside for a minute and then head to bed after. I’m beat.”

  I can’t help but glare at the pack of cigarettes in his hand.

  He notices, and sighs. “I’ve been a smoker for over forty years, Calla.”

  “And it’s going to kill you if you don’t stop.” A reality that has been there since the moment we met face-to-face in the hallway for the first time, and yet it concerns me that much more now. Probably because I don’t feel like I’m looking at a stranger anymore.

  “Doc says it won’t make much of a difference, so why put myself through that.”

  “I guess. If that’s what your doctor said.”

  He opens his mouth, but then hesitates. “You’re yawning. Go to bed, kiddo.”

  I am exhausted after last night’s restless sleep. “Hey, do you think we could start locking the door at night?”

  Dad frowns. “Why? Something got you spooked?”

  “Besides the neighbor who wants to take hedge clippers to my hair?”

  “Is that what Jonah said he’d do?” He chuckles. “He’s not actually going to do that.”

  I level him with a knowing look.

  “I would never allow him to do that to you,” he corrects, a touch more sternly.

  “You said so yourself . . . he’s not going to let me get away with it, even if it’s a huge improvement.” Even if my blood raced every time I so much as heard his voice today, and my attention was only ever half on what I was doing, the other half wading through our past conversations, replaying words and looks, only now from the new version of Jonah, the one who’d stop me in my tracks if we were passing on the street.

  I’ve somehow conveniently forgotten all the unpleasant exchanges and his games. Those were all the work of the angry yeti. My mind—or more likely my hormones—seems to be trying to compartmentalize Jonah in some sort of Jekyll and Hyde situation so I can freely lust over the hot Viking version.

  “Don’t forget, he hasn’t been cleared to fly by the FAA yet. One call from me . . .” My dad winks.

  I’m sure he’s only kidding, but I appreciate it all the same. “Can we just lock the door anyway?”

  He shrugs. “If that makes you sleep better, sure.”

  “Good, thanks.” I collect our dinner dishes. “Oh, and I’m making overnight oats for breakfast. Do you want me to make you some?”

  “I don’t normally eat breakfast, but . . .” He seems to mull it over. “Sure. I’d love that.”

  “’Kay.” I smile with satisfaction. “Night, Dad.”

  The heavy rain last night brought with it cooler weather this morning. Gooseflesh instantly sprouts along my bare skin as I step out of the steamy bathroom. I hug my towel tightly around my body as I dart to my bedroom, intent on dressing quickly.

  I catch a familiar scent the second I step inside and pause to inhale deeply. That’s Jonah’s soap. But it’s not possible. I locked the kitchen door before I jumped into the shower.

  I scan my room warily. My phone and laptop are on the chair; the clothes I laid out for the day are on the bed, untouched. The rest of them hang neatly in the closet.

  In a half-turn, I realize the problem.

  The top of the dresser is bare.

  Every can, every bottle, every brush. Every last cosmetic I own.

  Gone.

  I dive for my purse.

  He’s even taken my essentials from there—my compact powder, my mascara, my favorite blush lipstick.

  “Jonah!” His name is a curse on my tongue. I rush out of my bedroom and down the hall.

  He’s in the kitchen, leaning casually against the counter with his back to the sink, his legs crossed at his ankles, eating a bowl of overnight oats.

  My bowl of overnight oats.

  A key dangles on a ring from his finger in a taunting way. A key to this house, I’m guessing.

  “Where are my things?” I demand, my annoyance clouding all other thoughts for the moment.

  His hand pauses halfway to his mouth, and his eyes drag over my body, stalling at my bare thighs for a few too many beats, reminding me exactly how short this towel is—about four inches away from me being mortified—before continuing his meal. “What things?” he says casually.

  “Everything you took from my room.”

  “Oh. Those things.” He takes his time licking the spoon. “They’re in a safe place.”

  The white shirt beneath his flannel jacket has damp streaks over it. A dreary rain still falls outside, though it’s lighter than yesterday. Light enough for Jonah to trek all the way home with my things and then back again just to taunt me?

  “At my house,” he confirms, as if reading my mind. “And you’ll never find them.”

  “This isn’t funny. There’s over a thousand dollars’ worth of makeup there.” Eye shadow palettes that will crumble if handled roughly, and I’m guessing Jonah wasn’t overly gentle.

  “Shit. A thousand bucks? I think that’s a felony in Alaska.” Not that he sounds at all concerned.

  “Maybe I should call the cops, then.”

  “Yeah. Good idea. Do me a favor, though, and make sure you ask for Roper. He’s been complaining that he’s bored.” He points toward the bowl with his spoon. “This is good, by the way. What is this?”

  My frustration with him swells. “It’s mine.” I storm forward and, with one hand still gripping my towel to keep it in place, I yank the bowl from his grasp. Taking a clean spoon from the dish rack, I spin on my heels and storm back to my room, slamming the door behind me.

  A knock sounds a few minutes later.

  “What!” I snap, yanking my leggings up over my hips.

  “I’ll give everything back.”

  “You’d better.”

  “Eventually.”

  A strangled sound escapes my throat. “You are such a dick!”

  “What? I’m just helping you. Maybe now you have a shot at getting laid.” His amusement rings clear as he echoes my words from yesterday.

  “I don’t have problems in that department, either,” I throw back haughtily.

  There’s a pause. “Who’s Corey?”

  “My ex.” I tug my socks on.

  “Why’d you break up?”

  Do I want to indulge his curiosity? Will he somehow use it against me? “We grew apart. Or got bored, I don’t know. I ended it before I came here.” I throw open the door to find Jonah leaning casually against the wall, his gaze on the ceiling above, giving me a clear view of a jutting Adam’s apple. Even his neck is pleasant to look at.

  Blue eyes settle on me, and I momentarily forget that I’m irritated.

  “Why do you want to know about me and Corey?”

  He shrugs. “Just curious.” His gaze slides down the violet tunic shirt that clings to my frame and my black leggings below. The look on his face is unreadable, and yet it makes my pulse quicken all the same.

  I sigh heavily and try a more civilized approach. “Jonah, can I please have my stuff—”

  “No.” There’s no hesitation, no teasing inflectio
n anymore.

  “Fine,” I say curtly. “I’ll have fun trashing your house until I find it.” Because he can’t stay home all day.

  I move to march past him, but he stops me with a swift hand on my side, and then his other hand on my other side, gripping me tightly as he herds me backward, until I feel the cool wall through the back of my shirt.

  My hands fly up between us instinctively to press against his chest, unsure of exactly what’s happening, my mind not registering much beyond how solid and warm his body is, how my palms curve around ridges.

  Not until I dare look up, not until I see just how dark and intense his eyes have turned, do I begin to see it.

  This newly found attraction might not be one-sided after all.

  One . . . two . . . three beats hang as we seem to silently measure each other, as I struggle to grasp exactly how this has happened.

  And then Jonah leans down and skates his mouth across mine, in a kiss softer than I could ever imagine him capable of. His lips taste like mint toothpaste and the brown sugar from my oatmeal, and the soft, freshly cut hair of his beard tickles my skin in an oddly intimate way.

  I can’t breathe.

  He pauses, and then makes a second pass. He’s testing me to see how I’ll respond.

  “I thought you didn’t like my kind,” I whisper, my fingers too timid to venture over this massive canvas of chest.

  He loosens his death grip on my waist, letting one hand drop to curl around my hip while the other smooths upward, over my back and shoulder blades, to wrap around my nape. His fingers thread through my hair, pulling at it gently, forcing my head back. “I guess I was wrong,” he admits, in a voice so deep and husky that I feel it in the depths of my belly.

  And then he’s kissing me without hesitation, his mouth coaxing mine open, his tongue sliding against mine, his breaths melding with mine. Blood rushes to my ears as my heart pounds with an intoxicating, addicting thrill I haven’t felt coursing through my limbs in forever. Heat floods right to my core.

  I’m vaguely aware of footfalls pounding up the steps outside, and then Mabel’s loud, excited voice calls out, “Calla? Are you ready?”