Page 6 of Lost in the Wild

He’s kinda hot.

Oh, not at first glance, obviously. Not unless you like ‘em brawny and dirty and mean, which… that’s fair. Game of Thrones did a number on all of us.

But it’s only now, cradled against his strong chest and hearing his clipped answers to my questions, that I’m starting to wish I didn’t smell so funky from the hike.

“Do you live up here alone?”

“Yes.”

“In a cabin?”

There’s a long pause before he grunts, “Cave.”

“And do you hunt for your food?”

A terse nod.

“But you’re wearing jeans,” I point out, adjusting my grip on his strong shoulders and trying to ignore the heated bare skin beneath my palms. So distracting. “So you must indulge in a few creature comforts, right? You’re not, like, full caveman.”

The wild man sighs, carrying me between towering pines. There’s no sign of his arms tiring, despite my warnings back by the slope.

The light is fading now, shadows stretching across the forest floor, and it occurs to me way too late that a strange, possibly unhinged man is carrying me off to his cave. Should I be worried? Should I try to get away?

“Rowan,” the man mutters, stepping over a gnarled tree root. “My name is Rowan.”

Oh my god! “Evie,” I say quickly, beaming up at him. He volunteered that information without me wheedling it out of him for twenty minutes! This is progress.

“I know. Heard you earlier.”

I gasp in faux-shock. “So you were following me.”

“You also yelled it through the forest.”

I press my lips together, fighting a happy laugh. And I know it’s nuts, know I’m probably a prime candidate to wind up in a dumpster on one of those true crime shows, but I’m really not scared to be alone with this man. Not even up here on the mountain, stranded in wilderness.

The wild man—Rowan—is steadying. Grounded.

And I’d be one hundred percent screwed without him right now.

“I owe you big time for this,” I say as we move through the trees, my boots kicking gently. My right ankle throbs a little, but it’s not too bad. “And I’m pretty sure I could walk if we go slowly. You don’t have to carry me the whole way.”

Rowan’s arms tighten around me, clasping me to his chest. “It’s fine.”

“But—”

“I said it’s fine.”

The breeze changes direction, blowing his matted hair against my knuckles, and I fight the urge to wind a dirty lock of his hair around my finger. Despite the fine layer of dust and dirt on his skin, Rowan smells… good. Like sweat and moss and tree bark.

What makes a man want to live alone in a mountain cave? What makes him go barefoot and bare chested, refusing to interact with society? What happened to Rowan to make him like this? The endless questions clang around my brain, and I desperately want to know.

Not just for the article. For me.

I’m fascinated by this man.

Rowan carries me for around forty minutes through the darkening forest. It’s hard to judge exact timings, especially when I’m distracted by his shoulders and my phone is in my bag and I have zero experience of reading the natural light. Back home in the city, it’s never dark, not really. There are always streetlights, car lights, blinking neon shop signs… the whole city has a bright haze around it that covers up the stars.

Up here on this mountain, it’s getting dark. I shiver, clinging to Rowan’s neck.

---