Page 31 of Roughing It

I always loved the one-bed trope, but it’s clear to me now—all those authors are snake-oil peddlers who sold me a lie. It’s not cute. It’s not romantic. It’s. The. Worst.

Now I have to sleep on this cloud of a bed under the family heirloom quilt his grandma made and act like our near kiss didn’t happen. It’s a good thing I have excellent denial skills—on the outside, anyway. Internally, I look likeThe Screamcome to life.

I’m actually reconsidering the devil’s couch at this point.But that would mean going inside, and right now, I’m glued to the porch swing spiraling from Hudson’s dismissal. A litany of past humiliations—a mental playlist I like to call Blake Lee’s Epic Fails—starts as if cued by a director.

Young me, sitting on the rotten front porch of our trailer house while my mother combs nits out of my hair, crying and begging her not to do this outside where people can see. Getting my period at a sleepover and not knowing what to do, so I stash the stained blanket in a closet and run all the way across town to get home. An evening spent with an older guy at the lake, and he has to explain what sixty-nine is because when he asks me to turn, I think he means my back to his chest.

Eesh. And these aren’t evenbadmemories, just embarrassing ones.

While I’m frolicking down shitty memory lane, the sun sets, and the temperature drops. It’s October in the mountains, and the difference between Austin and Trail Creek is apparent. But I can’t bring myself to go inside. Partly because of the smarting slap of rejection, but also because I didn’t lie in my livestream when I said I love it out here. It really is the best part of the cabin. The stars and moon are out, casting the clearing in a soft, ethereal glow. In the distance, the faint gurgle of running water sounds, along with the subtle bristle of the leaves and the rustling of animals. It’s peaceful; the flotsam left from my brain-o-shame journey fades away more quickly than usual.

I take a deep breath, filling my lungs with the crisp, clean air—the heady scent of pine and earth. Goosebumps prickle on my arms and legs, and I fight off a shudder, wishing I had on more than leggings and a thin long-sleeve shirt.

The quiet snick of the door and creak of the porch draw my attention. “Brought you a blanket. It gets cold out here.”

Damn this man. I can’t take him being nice to me right now. I’d much prefer he call me spoiled or stubborn. Anything but standing in the glow of the moon, worried about me catching cold. When I don’t say anything, he drapes the blanket over my shoulders before disappearing into the cabin.

For a moment, I think about not using it. Leaving it abandoned on the porch. Sitting out here freezing for the rest of the night to prove a point.

But considering I’m out here alone, I’d only be proving the point to myself. So I wrap up in the blanket the grumpy, infuriating, ruggedly handsome man I almost kissed left me.

I don’t know how long I sit, but when I come inside, Hudson lies on his back, staring at the ceiling. Without a word, I climb into bed as well, hugging the edge, curling my body as far away from his as possible.

“Goodnight, Spitfire,” he whispers.

DAY THREE

Despite my plan to cling to my half of the bed, Hudson and I wake up wrapped around each other again. His arms band around my waist, his hard cock pressing against my ass. I resist the urge to wriggle, despite how good, how right his touch feels.

A part of me wonders if it isn’t a sign, an endorsement from the cosmos—or at least our subconsciousness—to go for it. But Hudson wordlessly pulls away, acting as though it’s nothing.

Which is fine. Totally fine. Lesson learned, remember Blakely? He doesn’t want you. Or he does want you and can’t admit it, but also, it’s a terrible idea and has shitstorm written all over it.

The sound of running water catches my attention, and Ishift to my side, the silhouette of Hudson’s thick frame visible behind the thin shower curtain. Not wanting to be a voyeur, I stumble into the kitchen and pour myself a cup of daily motivation.

With each boosting sip, my senses come online. And that’s when I smell it: orange blossom, gardenia, and honeysuckle.

My shampoo.

I can’t say it’s my most rational moment, but I stomp to where Hudson is showering. And in some sort of out-of-body experience, I yank back the shower curtain. There may be a snarl involved.

“Are you using my sham—” The words die on my tongue as my brain finally processes what’s in front of me.

Hudson’s large hands massage his scalp into a sudsy lather as water drips down his broad chest. My eyes follow the droplets as they journey through the slightly more than a smattering of dark hair all while a litany of naughty, naughty thoughts fills my mind.

I swear I do my best to keep my eyes on his face in the few seconds I have the curtain open. But…

Have I been wondering what Hudson Brooks has between his legs since the moment we met? Yes. Did I make a calculated guess based on the outline pressing against the front of his pants and my hip in the morning? Also yes. But seeing it live and in person? There’s no comparison.

Then, the realization of what I’m doing hits me. I’m perving. On Hudson. In the shower. I’m violating his personal space and being a total creep. I shut the curtain with a jerk, but it’s too late to unsee.

Behind the safety of the thin barrier between us, I press my fingers to my temples and groan. “I’m so sorry.”

His gruff chuckle sends chills down my spine. “I get there’s no door, but you could at least start with hello.”

“Right. Good morning.”

“Need something?”

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