She’d been about to take a sip, but straightened back up instead. “God, that’s a long time. How much longer you got?”
“This is it.”
“St. Jacob?”
“Yeah.”
“Then what?”
He turned away from all that expectation and stared hard into the darkness. It offered up nothing in way of an answer. Behind his eye, the twitch flared up again—funny how it’d disappeared for a while.
“Next question.”
“I’m not trying to interview you here, I’m just—”
“I know.” The water chose that moment to boil, thank God, and he set about rehydrating dinner. The smell made his stomach rumble, and the twitch simmered down again. He’d be more embarrassed about sharing this type of meal with a beautiful woman if he weren’t so damned hungry.
“Just messing with you, O’Neal.” He started to hand her a bowl and stopped. “Shit. You’ve gotta be a vegetarian, right? Living around here, with your hiking boots and your junk Subaru.”
“You think everybody around here’s a neo-hippy?”
“Is that what you guys are called nowadays?”
“Nope.”
“Is that nope to the name or eating meat?”
“Gimme that.”
He made a doubtful Hmph and handed her the plastic bowl. “Hope you’re a fan of chicken à la king.”
“Thank you.”
“Cheers.” He set his bowl on the ground and raised his tea cup, she did the same, and they touched mugs and gazes. Something warm flipped in Kurt’s belly before he hid his face in his drink. Jesus, when was the last time a woman had sent that zing through his limbs?
“Whoa.”
His eyes leapt to hers. Had she felt it, too?
“Strong enough to fell a horse.”
Oh. Disappointment swooped in to replace the excitement.
“Sorry.” He cleared his throat, sure she’d seen the way she lit him up with a glance. “Guess I made it a little strong. Been carrying the booze since I left North Carolina. Haven’t touched it once.”
They ate in silence, Kurt keenly aware of all these sources of heat. The tea, the food, the woman beside him. He couldn’t remember feeling so warm, even with the summer so recently over. Probably just the pleasure of talking to someone. Maybe. And the way she joked with him. The thrill of another person.
“Why’d you ask me to stay?” She broke into his thoughts.
Cause you’re pretty, he wanted to say, although that didn’t feel quite true.
Well, it was true, but it wasn’t the reason he wanted her here.
A litany of excuses went through his mind, all practical, all silly. None of them real.
“Lonely, I guess.” The words popped out, again not by his bidding, and he wondered what it’d be like to get back to life, back to reality. There’d be an adjustment period, he reckoned, where he’d have to learn to control his tongue again. Months spent on his own had blurred the lines between thinking, talking to himself, and interacting with others.
“Glad to be here, then.”
He reached for his mug and found it empty. Huh. No wonder his insides were zinging so hard. Not a drop to drink in a year and he’d sucked this one back in minutes.
“Want another?”
She shrugged and, even in that chunky coat, there was an elegance to it. Elegant hippy. He remembered her shorter, stockier, her hair chopped, her face rounder. It was the lips, though, that gave her away. The top one didn’t have one of those bowtie shapes. It was just one pert curve. He’d thought about biting it at the ripe age of seventeen, and anyone who said men matured past adolescence would be flat-out wrong, because, even in the dark, he wondered how that would feel. He thought of her eyes, too, big and round and a strange dark blue. He’d have figured out who she was eventually, with those eyes.
“I don’t know, Kurt.”
He fought to remember what he’d asked her. Another drink. Right.
They were touching now, just her shoulder to the front of his arm, as if they’d accidentally fallen into a near-embrace. He had no idea how they’d got that way, but hell if he’d shift back even an inch.
“No way I’m driving down this mountain if I have another.”
He held himself still, back curved slightly, heart beating like a drum in his chest. It’d be a miracle if she didn’t hear that—or feel it, at the very least. Did it even matter, if she did? Were you supposed to show someone your attraction, or hide it? Fuck, he didn’t know anymore. He didn’t know if he was supposed to be eager or hold back. What the hell did women want? A-holes ordering them around, like his ex seemed to find sexy, or a guy who listened?
“I’ve got a sleeping bag in my pack.” Her words floated up to him, the only movement besides the hot twist of excitement in his belly.
She was immobile too, which might mean something. Or it might not. He waited to find out, breath suspended tight in his chest in stark contrast to his restless bottom half.
“You got room for two in that tent?” she finally asked.
3
Well, that was one way of doing it.
Flushed with embarrassment and the heat of attraction, O’Neal waited for Kurt to decide her fate. Which was too grandiose a way of looking at it, though she sure was anxious as she awaited his response.
He finally put her out of her misery and said, “It’ll be tight,” which wasn’t a no. Nor was there anything conditional in that phrasing.
“That a yes?” she breathed, a little shocked at how ballsy she was. But then again, not really. When it came to sexual shenanigans, she was almost always the instigator.
So why did this feel different?
Beside her—against her, really—he was breathing hard, for the right reasons, she hoped.
He cleared his throat and still didn’t budge, which left her right arm and shoulder against him. His body was warm and firm and she bet there was nothing but rock-hard muscle and bone beneath his jacket. He’d been one hell of a football player in high school. She could only imagine what kind of body he’d grown into as a mature adult.
“There’s room,” he finally conceded, although he didn’t sound entirely convinced. Not exactly flattering. She started to edge away a bit, but he stopped her by lowering his head, twisting it to the side, and looking at her. Even in the dark she could feel his stare.
“You sure you wanna open up this can of what-the-fuck I’m dragging around?”
Of course not. He was attractive and interesting, sure, but the last thing she needed was to delve into this guy’s issues. Somehow, though, when she opened her mouth, the word No wouldn’t emerge.
“Haven’t been with anybody since my—” He cleared his throat, hard and low enough to sound painful, and forged ahead. Something about that—the vulnerability, the admission of insecurity from a man this inherently macho made her want to weep.
“Since I walked in on my ex getting drilled from behind by some Silicon Valley dipshit.”
Shock rippled through her. “Oh my God.”
“Crap. That’s not the kind of thing I’m supposed to tell a woman I’m attracted to, is it?”
“Are you kidding me?” He shook his head, a black silhouette in the night, and, against every one of her instincts, O’Neal wanted to kiss him. Badly. Not the best timing, probably. Instead, she held out her mug. “How ’bout that drink?”
With a huffed-out half laugh, he leaned over and relit his stove, refilled the water from his quickly dwindling supply, and sat back.
The camp stove bathed his straight features in an eerie blue light, washing out the lines and making him look young again. Not quite seventeen, but somewhere between then and now. He might look like this today, if life hadn’t knocked him around so much. She decided that she preferred the bashed-up version.
“You’re sexier now than you were back then.”
His eyes widened, with surprise, she guessed. “You are coming on to me.” He sounded a little shocked, a litt
le excited.
“It wasn’t clear?”
“Like I said. It’s been a while.”
“That okay?”
He made a disbelieving are you kidding sound. “I like it. I mean, a lot. Course, I’m stinky. Had the same couple of changes of clothes on for the past three months. I wash ’em when I can, but… Look, I want you to sleep in my tent, but I’m afraid it’s not what you’re looking for.” He lowered his head and stared at his hands before meeting her gaze again, his eyes two half-moon reflections in the night.
“I mentioned I’m a terrible driver, right, Kurt? Last thing anybody needs is me going home on these scary-ass roads in the middle of the night, bourbon or not.” She sidled right up against him and stared at that hot-looking flame, feeling its thrilling echo deep in her belly. “I’m also enjoying your company. Can you blame me for getting my flirt on with my high school crush?”
“Course not.”
Rather than dwell on her reasons for doing this, she asked him the first thing that popped into her brain. “So, you walked in on your ex getting her rocks off with someone else, huh?”
“Oh, we’re going there?”
“Don’t have to.” If she tilted her head just a smidge, she could rest it against him, and if she turned, very slightly, she could catch a little bit of his man smell. “You smell good,” she said, letting his coat cushion her cheek, and enjoying the shiver of excitement at being in this unexpected position tonight with an unexpected man.
“I bathe when I can. Wear deodorant.”
“It’s good. You smell real.”
“Wow. This is…” He swallowed audibly and after a few seconds of apparent decision-making, wrapped his left arm around her. “This is nice.”
It took just a slight shift for her to turn this into a hug. His head settled onto hers, and they were entwined. Not quite lovers, but more than two strangers comforting each other. Their parkas made a slithery sound, while the stuffing kept them from getting too close.
He inhaled, possibly sniffing her the way she’d done him, and she sank into his body, heavier, deeper, more relaxed, and easy. The water came to a boil and he disentangled himself to serve their boozy teas, sending spicy vapor curling to merge with the clear mountain air.
After an audible sip, he started talking into the dark.
“We met in college. Got married when I enlisted. Thing is, she wanted a football star, not a guy who spent his life on the other side of the world.” A slow sip, which must have burned. Resentment spiked through her at the notion of a woman marrying this man for whatever glory he brought her. “Can’t believe I’m saying this, but I can hardly blame her, you know? She told me she wasn’t happy, but I didn’t hear her. Couldn’t. Not when my life wasn’t about her any more. She seemed…unimportant? God, it’s shitty, but it’s how you feel when you’re deployed and doing your best to keep your people safe. I’d come home and wish I were someplace else. Back with my team.”
For a second, O’Neal felt sorry for the wife. Not that she could picture herself married to begin with, but if you did get married, your spouse was supposed to love you above all else, right? “You weren’t happy to come back to her?”
“No. No, I was, it’s just…she didn’t get that I was different. She couldn’t see that my body was here, but my soul was…” He shifted hard to the right, almost like he’d get up. She was relieved when he didn’t. “Shit. I’ll shut up now.”
When he did stand up, she thought about following, but she’d learned to wait for things to settle before sticking her nose in them. That was one good thing being a small-town reporter had taught her. People talked when you listened. Waiting was hard, though, when you actually cared about the outcome.
Why the hell couldn’t he shut off the crap boiling inside him? He had a hot as hell woman, clearly into him—or at least into the idea of whatever might happen tonight—and he couldn’t let go of the shit lining his insides, couldn’t get that itch in his head to stop twitching. Couldn’t he just fucking relax, for once, and enjoy himself? She’d get up any second now, grab her pack, and head back down the trail. Hell, she didn’t need him or his tent. With her coat and a sleeping bag, she could fold back the seats and camp out in her car.
“You should go sleep in your car.” He nodded a few times, even rooted around in the dark until he came up with her pack, and handed it to her. “I’m not fit for human…” Fuck, the only word he could think of was consumption. Which clearly wasn’t right. “Company.” That was it. Not consumption. Jesus, was he wasted from two shots of bourbon?
“I’m sorry, O’Neal. It’s been a while since I had a drink. I couldn’t after…I apparently can’t handle my alcohol. You need a flashlight? I’ll give you my flashlight. It’s right—”
She stopped him with a hand to the chest. Just one slender hand, right in the center of his body. Right where everything he felt was snared up, cramped and uncontrollable. Emotions writhing like snakes that weren’t even him. He’d been trying to get rid of these alien feelings for a year now. Or at least calm them, but he couldn’t control what didn’t feel like him.
O’Neal’s hand, though…
It took him a few seconds to realize he was breathing just fine. Air flowed in and out, effortlessly. And the head itch was gone—no pain, no pressure, nothing but excitement.
“I need to pee. And then I’m going to sleep. In your tent. You don’t get violent in your sleep or anything like that, do you?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Okay.” One decisive nod of her blonde head, her battering ram of a hand disappeared, and she took off into the darkness. One…two…three. He counted out the steps to the tent, toed off his shoes and went in, then realized he’d need to hit the head, too. He didn’t like the idea of entering the tent once she’d already settled, but lying here waiting was worse.
Much, much worse.
He crawled out just as she showed up with her pack. They maneuvered around each other, and he took care of business before heading back in, nerves and excitement fighting in his veins.
He found her in her sleeping bag, hair hanging around her face as she looked at something on her phone.
“You getting bars here?” he asked, more for something to say than because he really cared.
“Yeah. You need to use it?”
“I’ve got one.”
She glanced up at him and then back down, concentration tightening her features.
“I’m calling in sick. Or texting in sick, I guess.”
“That gonna be okay?”
She twisted up her face. “Whatever. Someone else can do the pancakes this year.”
“Pancakes?” His taste buds pricked up at the idea.
“You have any idea how hard it is to find something new and interesting to report on the exact same event every year? The Bellingham Kiwanis Club holds a pancake breakfast every year, the weekend before Thanksgiving. This would be my third year covering it for the local paper, but they’ve been doing it for twenty-six straight years. God bless ’em.” He blinked. Thanksgiving. Shit. He’d had no idea what the date was. “Someone else can do the pancakes and crappy sausage this year. It’s titillating, as you can imagine.”
“Sounds it.”
She tapped furiously at her phone before turning to him. As close as their bodies had been outside, at least there’d been air for each of them. Here, they shared even that.
“So, thank you.”
He blinked. “For?”
“Providing me with an excuse to play hooky.”
“Oh. Right. Sure.”
It smelled different in the tent. After less than five minutes, she’d made her feminine presence known. Something flowery—he’d caught the scent of that in her hair when they’d had that…wrenching hug. Jesus, he wouldn’t be able to sleep if he thought about the hug.
He took off his coat and crawled into his bag.
As if I’ll be sleeping anyway.
“A lot has changed since high scho
ol.”
He opened eyes he hadn’t realized he’d shut to watch her go on, the tent television-blue in the light from her phone.
“But not everything. You probably don’t remember this about me, since it’s not like we were…friends or anything, but…I’m pretty direct.”
That made him smile. “Oh, I remember. Direct as a bulldog.”
“Well, that’s flattering.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I like a little snark.” She scooted closer and lowered her voice. “What do you want to do here tonight? We’re strangers, basically. But I… I guess I mean that we don’t have to do anything. I mean, I could just keep you company, while you sleep.”
She was backing off now that she’d got him in the tent.
“I stink?” He put as much humor as he could into his voice. “That it?”
No way could he hold that direct gaze, even with its opalescent light filter. He rolled onto his back and pressed his fingers to his eyes, pushed his eyeballs harder than he should. Waited for the prick to subside.
She shifted closer, but still he couldn’t look. It took him a second to realize she’d leaned in to sniff at him.
“You smell good.” He instantly hardened at those words and just stopped himself from reaching down to press on his cock.
“You’re killing me, O’Neal.”
“We don’t have to do anything, is what I’m trying to tell you. But we can. I’m a direct son of a bitch, I know.”
That made him laugh; a weird, barked sound that almost hurt on the way out.
“Or, you know, if you need me to…hold you or something, I could just keep you warm.”
“Why?”
“You said you were lonely.”
His eyes popped open, and he turned to her. “You feel sorry for me?”
“No, dumbass. I’m into you.”
“This how you are with all the guys? Offering hugs and stuff?”
“I usually demand a quick, hard fuck. But with you I figured I’d take it slow.”
Everything in his body stood up at those words. Goosebumps in a sleeping bag when it was just barely freezing outside. And his cock, Christ, it was rock solid now. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a hard-on like this.
Rogue Affair Page 35
