Page 27 of Roughing It

“Toilet paper. Two-ply versus one-ply. Kirk laughed at me when I packed a twenty-four pack of the good stuff, but there are some things you can’t compromise on.”

I huff out a laugh and mutter, “Couch, hike, toilet paper, me. Is anything about this place good enough for you, Princess?”

“Don’t call me that.”

Shit, I was louder than I thought.

The lamp clicks off, and Blakely clears her throat. “I’m mostly joking about the toilet paper, though chaffing is a real concern. Thank you. For taking care of my feet, for making me a sandwich, for agreeing to this even though you hate me. This place is lovely.”

“I don’t hate you, Blakely.” I hate she thinks that.

“It’s a pretty brave thing, me being alone with you in this cabin, miles and miles away from another person. Leaving my entire world behind for a month to spend it with a stranger. It may not seem that way to you, but for me, it is. I’m trusting you, Hudson.”

My heart jumps in my throat, her last words ringing in my ears. I wait for her to say more, to say anything else, but for once, she’s silent.

As I drift off to sleep, she whispers, “So you know for next time, I prefer mustard on my sandwiches.”

And I lay there in the dark, grinning like an idiot.

Two hours later, my grin is long gone. This couch fucking sucks. I’ve sat on it here and there, but I lean more towards the single recliner or the barstools. Damn if Blakely isn’t right.

I toss and turn, hunting for a comfortable spot, but it doesn’t exist. I’m too long for the stupid thing, too, so it’s either let my feet hang off or curl up, but I’m too fucking wide to curl.

From across the room, Blakely’s steady breathing stirs the still air. She’s passed out cold. I don’t blame her. That bed is fucking comfortable. I replaced the old one when I started staying out here on my own a couple of weekends a month.

Guess I should replace the couch, too. But you can bet your sweet ass it won’t be until my Spitfire’s back in the city where she belongs. Shit. Not my Spitfire. Not my anything. Just a client.

I stifle my thoughts because if I don’t sleep, I really will be a fucking bear tomorrow. Yanking my pillow off the couch, I pad to the bed. We are two adults sharing a sleeping space. Nothing more.

Careful not to wake her, I slip between the sheets. She stirs a bit, and I hold my breath, hoping she’ll settle. Instead, in the slivers of moonlight, I see a knowing smile.

Without opening her eyes, she whispers, “Told you the couch sucks.”

Little brat.

“Need me to build that pillow wall?” When I don’t answer her, she murmurs, “G’night, Hudson.”

Damn, if her sleep-filled voice doesn’t do something to me. In an out-of-body moment, my hand moves of its own accord and smooths a stray tendril of gold hair behind her ear.

When my roughened hand brushes her smooth skin, Blakely nuzzles into my touch but shows no other signs of being awake. She follows the heat of my palm, searching for more—like a touch-starved kitten. As gentle as I’ve ever been, I cradle her cheek. A soft mewl falling from her full, pouty lips is my reward.

No. I can’t read into it. Her reaction is some sort of involuntary response. She’d act this way if anyone caressed her beautiful face. And what the fuck am I doing touching her while she’s asleep, anyway?

Don’t be a fucking creep, idiot.

I roll to the edge of the bed, angry with myself for touching her without consent and for thinking her sweet little sigh is anything more than a reflex. And for wishing it is.

She’s a client. Nothing more. She’ll never fit in here, never settle for someone like me. She’s another Paige. A city girl playing at the country life. The refrain plays in my head until exhaustion pulls me under.

DAY TWO

Something warm and soft snuggles against me, and a waft of floral and citrus fills my nose. Blakely.

Shit. My face is buried in her hair, while her cute little nose presses to my neck and her arms wrap around my waist. One of her legs rests between mine. The only way we’d be closer is if I was inside her. My dick jumps at the thought, and I groan,willing my blood to flow to other, more needy parts of my body, like my fucking brain.

She wriggles and stretches, and just as I untangle myself from her grasp, she cracks open one eye. “Hudson?”

I grunt out a sound that could bemornin’if you squint real hard.

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