Page 29 of Roughing It

“No one needs to know North, South, East, and West! GPS exists for a reason. And if you don’t have GPS, you give location-based directions.”

I don’t answer.

“You know, go past the Sonic. When you see Target, turn left.”

The snort is out before I can stop it. “Do you see a Target out here? Me saying turn left at the tree won’t help you.”

Her lips press into a thin line.

“As far as GPS, you can’t count on always having your phone with you, having service or battery. If you can orient yourself, you can get to where you need to go, no matter where you are.”

She huffs. “And knots? Why do I need to know how to tie a trillion different knots?”

A flash of Blakely tied to my headboard, knots around her delicate wrists, has me reaching to adjust myself as subtly as possible. Clearing my throat, I say, “They each have a different purpose. A taut-line hitch and trucker’s hitch are good for securing shelter. A figure-eight knot can help secure a harness. A?—”

“Okay, Professor Knothead, I get it. Knots are everything.” She throws the rope she’s been fiddling with on the ground.

I try to suppress my annoyance, but I fail. We haven’t even talked about fire starting, plant identification, situationalawareness, or shelter building with natural materials. And it isn’t happening today. We’ve been out here for hours—most of that spent orienting her to the cardinal directions. She’s a surprisingly accurate shot with the BB gun, though.

“Can we call it a day, please? This is stupid. I’ll never need to know any of this.”

“So it’s all for show.” There’s more anger in my tone than I mean for her to hear.

She has the good grace to look contrite, her shoulders rising. “No. I mean, yes. Maybe? Would I like to learn these things? Yes. Will I use them down the road? No.”

“Tell you what, Princess.” Heat flares on her face at the nickname she hates, but it’s fucking fitting in this moment. “We’ll call it a day.” My lips tip into a smirk. “If you can navigate us home without using your phone.”

Her pretty mouth drops open before she snaps it shut. She scans the thick band of trees and rocky trails around us. We’re a fifteen-minute walk from the clearing, but I can tell by her demeanor she’s lost.

Crossing her arms, plumping those perfect tits of hers, she says, “I hope you’re prepared to sleep outdoors because I have no idea where we are. The asshole who is supposed to teach me to navigate by the sun and moon or whatever sucks.”

“Only one of us will have a problem sleeping outdoors, and it sure as shit isn’t me.”

With a huff that could knock a pig’s house down, she spits, “At least point me in the right direction.”

It takes forty minutes—forty minutes in which she only speaks to gripe at me. But she’s so damn pleased with herself I don’t have the heart to tell her how badly she did.

There’s another rule broken.

I sip a glass of whiskey and watch Blakely at her makeshift command center talking to Kirk while dinner cooks in the oven. I don’t mean to eavesdrop, but it’s a small fucking cabin. Besides, I only understand half of what they say; the rest sounds like code—stills, trending, streams, sponsorships, branded posts.

Once she finishes, she glances around. I mirror her actions, chuckling to myself. How she demolished the space is beyond me. She’s been here two days, and it looks like a bomb went off in her suitcases—the clothing, shoes, and toiletries scattered like shrapnel.

I’m not such an asshole that I didn’t offer her a drawer in the dresser, but she refuses to use them, opting instead to dig through her bags. Taking another long pull from my glass, I shrug. Her shit, her business. Even if it makes me twitchy.

The little slips of lace especially.

Blakely’s voice pulls me from my panty-laden fantasies. “I’m doing today’s live spot on the porch swing. Want to join me?”

“What, don’t want your adoring fans finding out how much of a slob you are without someone to pick up after you?”

I can just make out her blush under the makeup she’s wearing, but it’s there.Ding, ding, ding.Hit the nail on the head.

“No,” she sniffs. “The porch swing is a more interesting location. They’ve already seen all the inside has to offer.”

“Whatever you say.” I follow her to the porch and plop down on the swing. She’s close enough that I can feel goosebumps arise on her skin when our knees brush. Blakely grabsmy bicep, using it as leverage while making herself comfortable. My arm tingles where she touches me, and I keep checking to make sure it isn’t actually trembling.

The swing starts with a soothing sway. For a moment, I pretend this is my real life. Sitting on this porch in the twilight with a gorgeous woman at my side.

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