The Simple Wild

by K. A. Tucker

  Because then I won’t be alone in it.

  But I’m guessing he’s too smart to let that happen. “Are you always so honest about everything?” I ask mildly. Brutally so, sometimes. Though, I think I’m beginning to admire that quality. It’s painfully refreshing.

  I watch his face as it hardens with thought, his perfectly groomed jaw—the hairs mussed but still sexy—tensing. The mood in the cabin has suddenly shifted.

  And then he sighs and, tossing the poker to the stone pad next to the stove, moves for the door, pushing it wide open. He simply stands there and watches the deluge of rain as it beats against the valley floor, his hands hooked on the wood above him, his naked silhouette framed by the doorway, cooler air flooding in.

  I sense the need to stay quiet and let him work through whatever’s on his mind, so I sit up and hug the sleeping bag tight to my body. And I selfishly admire his firm body. That ass I couldn’t see in those styleless baggy jeans? It’s there, alright. Round and rock hard, with two long red marks. From my nails, I realize. Several more marks span his back. I don’t even remember getting that rough with him.

  “My dad was like that. He’d come right out and tell you what he thought of you, and a lot of the time, it wasn’t anything you’d want to hear. But he’d say it anyway. Couldn’t help himself. It was like he’d explode if he didn’t get it out.” He chuckles. “When I met Wren, I didn’t know what to think of him at first. He was this quiet man who kept his head down and seemed to just let things happen. Didn’t yell about anything. He was about as opposite to my dad in every way as you could get. I don’t think he knew what to think of me, either. I was pretty sure he was gonna can my ass within the first week. But George said I needed to come work for Wild, and I trusted George.”

  I smile, thinking back to my dad’s words. “He said you were full of piss and vinegar when you started.”

  Another chuckle. “Definitely not sugar and spice, that’s for sure.”

  “He knew you were a good pilot.”

  “It’s funny, you know, my dad may have taught me how to fly a plane, but Wren was the first one to ever tell me I was any good at it. Maybe if he had, I wouldn’t have bailed on the air force. Maybe I would have cared more to please him. I mean, I’d do anything for Wren.” He pauses. “I know he doesn’t have the best track record with you and God knows he has his faults, but he’s up there with the best guys I know. I’m . . .” His voice drifts with a hard swallow.

  “I’m really glad Agnes called me. And that I came to Alaska,” I admit. That’s the first time I’ve actually said those words. It’s the first time I’ve truly felt them, deep down inside.

  He turns his head, giving me his profile. “You mentioned staying in Alaska longer today.”

  “Uh . . .” Yeah, in a moment of blind jealousy. “I wasn’t really thinking when I—”

  “You should.” His gaze drifts outward again. “For Wren. The next few weeks . . . months . . . are gonna be hard. It’d be better if you were in Alaska for them. With him.”

  “Is he even going to be around much, though? Sounds like he’ll be in Anchorage most of the time.”

  Jonah’s quiet for a long moment. “He won’t ask you to put your life on hold for him, but he really likes having you around. I can tell.”

  That’s basically what I’d be doing. Hitting “pause” on restarting my career at another bank, to wardrobe changes in Diana’s Tahoe and fashion shots, to Simon’s lattes and sage advice, to stilettos and clubs on Friday nights.

  Back to a long-distance phone relationship with my dad.

  And likely no relationship at all with Jonah.

  My stomach tightens with the thought.

  “Maybe you’re right. I don’t know what to do, though. I can’t just keep rebooking every week. They charged me two hundred bucks—”

  “See if you can cancel your return ticket and rebook it when you’re ready.”

  I actually might be able to do that. Simon did say it was flexible. As usual, Jonah makes it sound so simple.

  “Your life will be waiting for you when you go back, and it won’t matter if it’s next week, or next month, or next year—”

  “Next year!”

  “Maybe not that long,” he mutters. “My point is, you won’t lose anything by staying. That life will still be there to go back to.”

  My eyes drift over his perfect body again. I just spent two hours tangled up with this guy. “And what about this? If I did stay that long, don’t you think we just complicated things?” Because I’m definitely feeling something for Jonah, and it’s not just physical.

  What will weeks, or months, of doing this do to us?

  “Maybe, but I don’t ever let that shit stop me from doing what I need to do. I live my life by the day. And today, you’re here.” He pulls the door shut and turns to face me. My eyes can’t help but flicker downward. He certainly hasn’t had an adverse reaction to the cold air. “But we can stop this right now, if you want, if that’s going to be a deciding factor for you staying.”

  An unexpectedly strong wave of disappointment hits me at the suggestion, at the thought that I won’t get to feel his mouth or his touch or his weight or his heat anymore. No, I do not want that. “Let’s not get hasty.”

  He smirks. “I had a feeling you’d say that.” He strolls forward to drop to his knees at the end of the foam mat and yanks the sleeping bag off me. Gooseflesh springs over my skin instantly. Jonah’s eyes are like lasers drawing over my skin, taking everything in, deciding where to attack first.

  I help him decide by stretching my body out for him, even as my stomach does a nervous flip.

  His strong, rough-skinned hands seize my ankles and begin their slide upward, pushing my legs apart as they go, and all my worries about tomorrow are instantly forgotten.

  Chapter 22

  Thwack.

  Thwack.

  Thwack.

  My eyes crack open to a dull, repetitive sound coming from outside. Dim daylight filters through the tiny portals, illuminating just enough so that I can make out the medley of frying pans dangling from nails against the wall.

  I’m alone in our makeshift bed and the air is cold. I tug the sleeping bag tight under my chin and curl into a ball, instantly feeling the pull of sore muscles. I can’t tell how much of that is from sleeping on this thin foam mattress, and how much is because of my night with Jonah.

  The rain has stopped, at least, I note. That constant drum against the roof was a soothing white noise for me to finally drift off to in the wee hours, but now the ensuing silence is all the more deafening.

  Thwack.

  Thwack.

  Thwack.

  Curiosity finally wins me over. Throwing off the sleeping bag, I step into my rain boots and grab Jonah’s flannel jacket from the clothesline, knowing it’ll cover enough of me. Hugging it tightly, I step outside. A thick, gloomy fog has settled over the soaked forest, shrouding the tall spruce trees and the narrow pathway to the plane. Even the outhouse has disappeared. It’s almost ghostly in mood, this morning.

  Jonah is off to the left, his back to me, bent over a sizeable tree stump to position a log on its end. An axe sits nearby, next to a small pile of freshly split wood. He’s wearing nothing but his baggy jeans and unlaced boots. I settle against the door frame and quietly admire the stretch and strain of the muscles in his naked back as he reaches for the axe.

  “How’d you sleep?” Jonah calls out suddenly, his voice especially gravelly with the morning.

  “Pretty good.” I clear the scratch from my throat. “A bit thirsty.”

  “Well, that’s a huge surprise,” he mutters wryly. “That water we had should have lasted us a week.”

  “Yeah, if you’re a camel.” And you’re not used to polishing off a two-liter bottle every day, like I do back home.

  He glances over
his shoulder, his gaze stalling on my bare thighs for a brief moment, before returning his focus to his task. He swings the axe, bringing it down on the chunk of wood. It splits in two.

  If there’s such a thing as beautiful form while chopping wood, Jonah has it. Or maybe it’s just him that’s beautiful, because I could watch that broad chest and tapered waist all day long. A flash of his powerful shoulders and arms tensing over me last night comes to mind and my lower belly instantly stirs with the memory.

  On impulse, I duck back into the cabin to grab Simon’s Canon. I manage to snap a few candid in-action pictures before he turns and catches me. “What are you doing?” he asks warily.

  “Nothing. Just . . . I want to remember this.” I smile, setting the camera aside. As if I could ever forget it.

  He makes a grunting sound, and I can’t tell if he’s annoyed or just being Jonah. “I’ll have the fire going again soon.”

  “What time is it, anyway?” The battery on my phone has long since died.

  “Just after six.”

  I make the reluctant trek toward where I know the outhouse is, unable to ignore my bodily needs and just wanting to get it over with at this point. Jonah walked me out in the rain three times last night and howled with laughter every time I ran out of the dingy, dark little box. I’ve never peed so fast in my life, and I hated every second of it.

  Shockingly enough, despite the lack of other basic comforts, it’s the only thing I’ve hated about being stranded out here. Probably because Jonah has kept me well occupied.

  “So, I’m guessing we can’t take off yet?” I ask on my way back, slathering sanitizer over my hands. Tall, damp weeds lick my bare legs as I trudge through the grass, leaving wet trails against my skin.

  “Not until this fog lifts. A few more hours, at least.” Two halves of another log tumble to the ground with his powerful swing.

  My stomach lets out a well-timed grumble. “Is there anything else besides that meat?”

  “Protein bars.”

  “Right.” Dried meat and protein bars. This can’t be good for anyone’s digestive system. “What would we do for food if we were actually stranded out here for a while, anyway?”

  “We’d be fine. I’ve got my fishing rod and the gun.” Jonah swings the axe.

  Thwack.

  “Of course.” We’d just go kill our meal. Naturally.

  The intimate, passionate Jonah from last night is absent this morning. He seems to be back to focused survivalist mode, much like he was when we arrived yesterday. I shouldn’t complain—he’s keeping me warm and fed—yet I ache for him to drop everything and kiss me again.

  What if he’s decided that last night was a one-time deal?

  It probably should be, before I get in too deep with him. Who’s kidding who, though? I’m already acutely aware of his moods and potential thoughts, and caring too much about them. Isn’t that the first sign that you’ve waded in too deep?

  Diana would swear it is.

  But acknowledging that doesn’t change the fact that I still want him. Badly.

  I feel a pinch and slap my thigh with a hiss, squashing a mosquito against my skin. Another one lands beside the corpse, oblivious and ready to feed.

  “You’re about to get swarmed. They just came out,” Jonah murmurs, grabbing an armload of wood and marching toward the cabin, his boot laces dragging through the grass.

  He gets to work relighting the fire while I track down the few bugs that followed us in.

  “Forget another bank job. I should just find someone to pay me to do this all day,” I mutter with grim satisfaction.

  “There’s a small can of repellent somewhere in that bag. If you want to spray yourself.”

  “Why not? I’m already filthy,” I mutter.

  With another fire crackling, Jonah pulls his shirt off the line and slides it over his head. “Give it a few minutes and then stick one log in.”

  I frown. “Wait. Where are you going?”

  He gives me a look. “You said you were thirsty, so I’m getting you water from the river.”

  “Oh. Thanks.”

  He grabs an old dented metal pot off the wall. “I want to check on the plane anyway.”

  I’m torn between a gush of warmth that Jonah’s still catering to my basic needs and utter disappointment that he might have already had his fill of meeting my other need: him.

  He heads for the door.

  “Wait,” I blurt out. “You forgot this.”

  He pauses to look over his shoulder.

  I take a deep breath and then peel off his bulky flannel jacket. The cool air skates over my bare skin as I stand there in nothing but my military red rain boots, holding my breath, waiting for him to respond.

  Hoping to God he doesn’t deny me.

  With a heavy sigh and a soft curse, he tosses the pot back onto the counter.

  My stomach does a nervous but victorious flip as he reaches over his head to yank his shirt off. “Don’t say I didn’t take care of you out here,” he warns, stalking toward me, his hands making quick work of his belt.

  I pause to grab one last picture of the safety cabin, capturing the wooden archway in front and a partially cloudy mountain range in the background.

  “Come on, we’ve gotta go!” Jonah hollers.

  “And the angry yeti is officially back.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing, I just wanted a shot of this,” I mutter, stuffing my camera into its case. He’s been in a rush ever since the fog dissipated not even a half hour ago, making quick work of camp cleanup so we could get moving. It’s like he suddenly can’t get out of here fast enough.

  I’m trying to not take it personally.

  He sighs heavily. “I’m being an ass, aren’t I?”

  While the actual apology doesn’t come out, I sense it there. “At least you’re learning when to admit it. That’s progress.” I trail him down the path, my annoyance fading almost instantly. His emergency gear hangs from his shoulder, the sleeping bag and foam pad once again rolled tidily and tightly, as if they didn’t aid and abet in a night of private acts.

  “How bad do you want to get home?”

  “To be honest, I think I’m going to miss this place.” I’m going to miss having Jonah all to myself. Despite the fact that my clothes and hair reek of smoke from the woodstove and I’m desperate for a shower and a toothbrush.

  “I’m definitely gonna miss that table.”

  Heat explodes over my face as an image of that particularly intimate moment hits me.

  But at least I’m not the only one who’s still thinking about us.

  What happens now, though?

  We’ll fly back to Bangor . . . and then what? I’m booked to leave next weekend, and yet here I am again, wondering if I should stay. Where exactly will that leave Jonah and me, though? Are we going to secretly screw in between hopping into planes and throwing around casual banter?

  Or will I be waking up in Jonah’s bed tomorrow morning?

  As I quietly take in the powerful body I became so well acquainted with last night, I already know I’d much prefer the latter.

  What would my dad make of that, though? He joked about Jonah and me hooking up, but would he actually be happy to find out that we did?

  It’s probably for the best, anyway. You don’t need to be repeating our mistakes.

  It’s not like we’re repeating my parents’ mistakes, though. We didn’t meet each other in some bar and fall madly in love. We didn’t even like each other at first. And I’m not about to get caught up in some false romantic fantasy about moving to Alaska.

  I like him now, true.

  I think I like him a lot.

  He’s not like any other guy I’ve ever dated or crushed on. And while he’s capable of making my blood boil like no one else, I feel a magnet
ic pull toward him that I can’t explain.

  But there’s a very clear expiration date to whatever this is between us and I haven’t lost sight of that.

  Well, I might have for a few hours last night.

  I will miss Jonah when I leave Alaska. And I am leaving Alaska at some point. That, I am sure of. The question is just a matter of when. And how many times I want a repeat of last night until then.

  We step out into the clearing and for the first time since coming into this valley, I’m able to fully grasp the vast open wilderness before us, and how remote we truly are, two tiny figurines with looming walls of rock that reach to the sky on either side of us. The wide river ahead trickles and rolls over a bed of rocks and driftwood, the water shallow and sparse in places but continuously flowing.

  Our plane sits where we left it, a small speck in a cavernous valley beyond, quietly waiting for Jonah to fly us home.

  He pops the door for me and then goes about getting us ready while I take more pictures.

  I can’t help but watch his every methodical step, his hands—that were so attentive to me earlier—smoothing over the plane’s body with near reverence; his gaze—that has been on every square inch of my body, many times over—now studying every square inch of metal critically.

  By the time he climbs into his seat, my skin is flushed and I’m wondering what sex would be like in a plane.

  “There’s more room in here than I first thought,” I murmur, eying the backseat.

  He chuckles as he starts flipping switches. “We can’t do this right now.”

  “Do what?” I ask innocently, even as my cheeks burn. How the hell does he know what I’m thinking? And what is wrong with me? I’m not normally needy like this.

  He peers up at the daunting ridges and the wisps of cloud hovering around them. “We’re going to go through the pass to look for the Lannerds.”