Page 24 of Roughing It

“I thought you had enough common sense to figure it out when I stopped answering your questions.”

“Listen up, asshat, my feet hurt! I’m sorry I’m not used to traipsing through the mud and muck on a daily basis. Some of us live in actual civilization.”

“Isn’t the whole point of your little wilderness excursion to experience life in the outdoors?” Hudson’s lips twist. “Where’s your camera now, Princess? Don’t want your fans to see the real you? A spoiled brat.”

I suck in a sharp gasp at his words and fight back the prickle of tears. He’s not the first one to call me spoiled, and I’m acting awful right now, but it’s worse coming from him for some reason. Plus, my feet hurt, and it’s barely six, and I’ve only had one cup of coffee, and that stupid couch was uncomfortable.

God, I really am a spoiled brat.

But he doesn’t get to be mean about it.

Anger combusts, scorching away any lingering tears. “Don’t call me Princess. How many times do I have to say it? You are the most insufferable, arrogant prick I’ve ever met. I’m going to the cabin. Fuck you, fuck these boots, fuck the wildlife, and fuck the fucking sunrise!”

Holding my head high, I spin and walk—limp—away from him, not caring if he follows or not. Five steps. Then ten. My heart clenches when I don’t hear him. Okay, I care a little. I really thought he’d follow me. Which is silly. He can’t stand me; he’s made that abundantly clear.

A solid, warm hand on my lower back startles me. “Dammit, Spitfire. Sit. Let me check your feet.” He guides me to a nearby stump. When I stubbornly stand, he growls, “Sit.”

Lower lip trembling, I plop onto the stump with the grace of a cow on ice. My entire body aches. Hudson’s movementsare no-nonsense, quick and efficient as he pulls off my boots and socks, then lifts my feet. But they still knock loose the hibernating butterflies in my stomach.

“Shit, you’ve already got blisters forming.”

The urge to smooth out the crease between his brows rides me hard, but I keep my hands firmly in my lap.

Like I’m made of glass, Hudson carefully slips my socks and boots back on, then helps me to my feet. “Let’s get you back. A better guide would’ve checked your gear before we set out. I’m sorry.” He hooks one arm around my waist and arranges one of mine around his back, supporting my weight.

Surprise has me freezing up. Even in the short amount of time we’ve spent together, I know he’s not the kind of man prone to apologizing. The heat of his body against mine stirs up a yearning, the need for touch and love, for someone to care for me and about me. I fight to keep from resting my head in the crook of his arm.

“Don’t look so shocked. I made a mistake. It’s only right I own up to it.” He smirks. “Besides, if checking your gear and getting you properly outfitted keeps you from complaining about your feet for the entire month, it’s worth it.”

And there he is.

When we finally arrive at the cabin, I can hardly move. The sun has fully risen now, but any potential appeal is lost to me. Even with Hudson’s sturdy frame supporting me, my feet sting like someone branded them.

I kick off the hiking boots from hell, drop to the floor, and gingerly peel off my socks. My heels and toes are red and raw. And worst of all, my pedicure is completely ruined.

Hudson studies me and then, without a word, sinks to the floor and carefully takes one foot in his large, calloused hand.

“What are you—ohhhh.” I fight off a moan when his strong fingers press into the pressure points of my arch.

Istudy his handsome, serious face as he works his way to my ankles and then my calves. He’s close enough for me to count every single adorable freckle. If I had a lifetime, would I run out of patterns to trace?

Who is this man? His mood is indeterminable. One minute, he’s scolding me; the next, he’s being nice.

“Thank you.”

He grunts in reply and drops my foot, my words breaking the spell between us. “Show me what you packed.”

The idea of going out to the Jeep and lugging in my suitcases sends phantom pains slicing through the nerves in my feet. Biting my lip, I go to rise from the floor, but Hudson’s heavy hand on my shoulder halts my momentum.

“Sit. I’ll be right back.” A few painful throbs from my feet later, he returns, slinging down my suitcases and squatting in front of me. “Open ‘em up.”

In another life, Hudson commanding me toopen ‘em upwhile he kneels between my legs would be prime fantasy material. It is in this life, too. That’s the only explanation I have for why my answer comes out breathy. “What do you want to see?”

“Any gear you brought.”

His words have the same effect as a bucket of cold water. Right. Professional.

I rummage through my bags until there’s a decent pile next to Hudson. He wordlessly sorts through it and then disappears without saying anything. AS quick as he left, he’s back with a small first aid kit.

---