Page 17 of Roughing It

“I will be, but only when I want. I’m not your puppet.”

I leave her standing there, mouth open, eyes blazing. I grab both bags, toss them into the back of the Jeep, and climb in. Sixty seconds pass, and she still isn’t in the goddamn passenger seat. After another thirty, my patience cracks, and I lay on the horn.

“Get in now, Spitfire, or I’m leaving you here.”

“Jeez, you’re a jerk!”

She purposefully takes small, slow steps, dragging her feet before finally getting in. As if she can’t help herself, she stands, popping her head out of the uncovered roof, fucking phone in her hand.

I shouldn’t do it, but the draw to mess with her is too strong to ignore. Without saying a word, I slam on the gas, tires screeching as we peel out of the parking lot.

Blakely jerks forward from the momentum, then scrambles to sit. “Are you trying to kill me?”

“Nope, getting us on the road. We’ve got a way to go, and it’s hard enough in daylight.”

“You could have asked me to sit.”

“I asked. You must not’ve heard.”

“You did not, you liar. You’re pissy because I didn’t jump when you said get in the car. In case you can’t tell, you’re not the only one with a strong will.”

I’m certain of that. This woman is made of will and fire and spunk and sass. I clench the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turn white.

Blakely leans in and brushes her lips against the shell of my ear. “That’s a tight grip you have there, Bear. Do you have lots of practice?” She flutters those long lashes. “Gripping things, I mean.”

A growl slips out of my throat, and I look at her, our faces dangerously close. One inch and I can have the kiss I imagined. Her ocean eyes run over me like a physical caress. She moves a millimeter closer, the scent of cherries on her lips.

“Eyes on the road, Hudson,” she whispers as she sinks back into her seat.

The way I want to thread my fingers in her hair and pull her back, kiss that sassy mouth until I know it better than my own. Drawing a steadying breath, I remind myself she’s a client—an annoying client who’s already driving me up the wall.

We don’t make it five miles before the questions begin. For the eighty-sixth time since waking this morning, I ask myself what the fuck I’m doing.

“So what’s the cabin like?”

“You’ll see when we get there.”

She rubs her temples as if I’m the exhausting one. “Do you live out here full time?”

“No.”

“Does anyone live out here?”

“No.”

“What do you normally use the cabin for, then?”

“What is this? Twenty damn questions? How about you enjoy the scenery, the fresh air, and the goddamn peace and quiet. Isn’t that why you’re here?”

Her glare bores into the side of my head. Am I too harsh? Fuck, yes. But what’s with the interrogation?

“Why did you agree to this? You seem absolutely miserable.” The hurt in her voice makes me angrier at myself for snapping.

The steering wheel creaks beneath my clenched fists. “My brothers and your boss—” at her raised eyebrow, I amend my word choice, “your manager—were very convincing. Apparently, you’re a big fucking deal. Once word you were coming got out, people in town kept dropping by to tell me how amazing you are.”

“Good to know some of the people in Trail Creek have taste.”

I smirk. “Now that I’ve met you, though, I think less of them.” I hope she can tell I’m joking. Mostly.

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