Page 113 of Roughing It

It’s an unreal feeling being seen. Especially when you’ve spent the vast majority of your life being ignored or hiding. “How’d you get so smart?” I ask, kissing the place over his heart.

“Born this way.”

I did it. I made fire.

I stare at the little fire I built—all on my own. Hudson stands feet away, arms crossed over his broad chest, eyes flickering with pride. The way he’s looking at me feels nearly as good as the way he woke me up this morning.

“Good job, Spitfire.”

I preen under his praise and toss him my phone. “Picture, please! I need to capture this for posterity.”

He clears his throat. “You doing a live?”

My jaw drops open. Who would think there’d be a day when Hudson Brooks encourages me to post to my socials?

“Um…” I scrunch my nose.

“Up to you.”

There’s so much unsaid in those three words. I hear it. I can take back my narrative. Face my fears. Own my history.

Or I can hide in the safety of the cabin.

Squaring my shoulders, I nod and walk Hudson through the steps. I don’t bother with the fake smile. If I’m doing this, I’m leaving behind the armor I’ve always donned.

“Hey, BBs. It’s been a few days, and I’ll address that, but before, I want to show you what I did.”

As the first flood of hearts rolls in, hope flickers in me. Maybe there is a place in my life for the me I’m becoming.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

hudson

I stroke Blakely’s hair as whiskey burns my throat, and the flickering fire casts golden shadows on her face. Our conversation yesterday, the orgasms I wrang out of her this morning, and her excitement over making fire left her worn out. She’s passed out cold, her head resting in my lap.

While savoring another drink, I watch her breathe. Soak in the fluttering of her eyelashes. When the first soft snore escapes her lips, I smirk. So noisy.

The familiar and incessant buzzing of Blakely’s phone draws me away from studying the masterpiece that is her face. Glancing at the screen, the word Hawthorne catches my attention. Gritting my teeth, I ignore the first two calls, but when it vibrates a third time, my patience snaps.

“What?” I answer the phone with a snarl.

“Who the hell is this?” The voice on the other end is slurred and weathered.

Dropping my voice, I slip Blakely’s head out of my lap and onto a couch cushion. “Pretty sure you know,” I say as I quietly pace in front of the fire. I have no desire to talk to thiswoman any longer than necessary, but I have a couple of things to get off my chest. And the inclination to put Brandee Shaw in her place for hurting Blakely. “She doesn’t want to talk to you.”

A rough snort sounds. “What’s it matter to you? This is private business.”

“So private you put it all over the fucking internet?”

“She owes me.” The amount of hate and entitlement in her words has me gripping the phone to the point I worry I’ll crack it.

“She doesn’t owe you shit. You’re her goddamn mother.”

A disgusting, wet hacking cough comes over the line. “You’ve got it bad.” Her laugh is cruel and cold, nothing like her daughter’s infectious giggle. “She’s gonna go back to her make-believe world and leave you behind. Blake is a stuck-up little snob—always thinking she’s better than everyone else. What makes you any different?”

Pain aches through my chest. This woman is nothing but lies and deceit and bitterness. But there’s a sliver of truth in her words. Blakely ran to a big city as soon as possible and made a life there. She’s told me about her concerns with small towns. And we still haven’t talked about what happens a week from now.

She’s meant for more than living in tiny Trail Creek with a roughneck like me. She has custom shampoo, for fuck’s sake.

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