Page 20 of Roughing It

He chokes on a raspy chuckle like it’s an unused muscle. “Cozy. That’s one way to describe it.” He drops his single duffle bag onto the bed and pulls out clothes, placing them into the two-drawer dresser against one wall.

“So, what’s this cabin for?”

“You asked me that on the ride up.”

“And you didn’t answer me, so I’m asking again. If this is some sort of sex-torture cabin, it needs an update. You’ve gone way too homey on the vibe.” This earns me a lop-sided, almost grin from him. “Really, what do you guys do with this cabin if you don’t live here?”

“We rent it out.”

“You have clients renting out a secluded sex-torture cabin?”

“No, we have clients renting a regular cabin.” His irritation is clear, but a tiny part of me enjoys irking him way too much.

As I explore the open room, I pick up a gorgeous quilt lying on the back of the couch. “If no one lives here, why do you have such nice things? This quilt is heirloom quality.”

He huffs through his nose but doesn’t answer. I can imagine him pawing the ground in exasperation like a gloriously frustrated bull.

Because I can’t help myself, I ask, “Are you bringing my bags in?”

He stops mid-fold—one eyebrow cocked, mouth agape—then shakes his head.

“Was that a no head shake or an I’m-disgusted-with-you-but-will-bring-your-luggage-in head shake?”

This time, he snorts. Progress.

“So, what’s the game plan?”

Sighing, Hudson turns his back to me. “Unpack and sleep.”

That’s a more short-sighted plan than I expect, but at least he answers me. “Unpack and sleep. Sure. You know what would make unpacking easier? If you’d bring in my bags.” I flutter my lashes at him.

He bites off each word. “Tell you what, Princess?—”

“Blakely,” I snap back.

“Tell you what, Spitfire.” I don’t correct him this time. Don’t ask me why. “I’ll bring them to the porch, but not an inch further.”

I narrow my eyes. “Why? What does it hurt to bring them in?”

“It doesn’t hurt me a damn bit, but it’s already more than I’d do for anyone else, and I swore to your boss?—”

“Manager.”

“—I wouldn’t give you any special treatment.”

“That’s so dumb.”

“And bringing them inwouldbe special treatment. Like I said, if you?—”

I wave. “Yeah, yeah, if you can’t carry it, you can’t bring it.”

He stands there looking at me, all cocksure and sexy. His broad shoulders fixed, his stance obstinate. If Hudson Brooks thinks he can out stubborn me, he’s in for a shock. Without saying anything else, I stomp out to the Jeep. His smug smirk falls away when I stride back minutes later, clutching a sleep shirt, shorts, and a small bag with my toothbrush and other toiletries. But no suitcase.

“You left them in the Jeep?” he asks, disbelief in his voice.

“Yep.”

“I give it two hours.”

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