Page 38 of Roughing It

I wake first, my internal alarm clock going off, and damn if I’m not pressed firmly against Blakely’s back. I’m her big spoon, my face buried in her hair while I hold tight to her slim waist.

As carefully as I can, I unhook my arm and roll to my cold side of the bed. In another world where she isn’t everything I don’t need, a world where she isn’t leaving in less than a month—instead of rolling away, I’d pull her closer.

But then I remember her surprise about my degree. The way she made the same assumption as so many others—that I’m nothing but a dumb mountain man. Happy in the forest, clicking rocks and tracking animals.

And I am. But I’m more than that. I run the business. I keep us in the black. I do the taxes and the finances and the scheduling. I’m the one who suggested adding corporate retreats and girls-only weekends.

When she climbed into bed last night, I expected her to strike up a conversation, but instead, she turned her back and pulled the blanket up to her chin like she had the right to be upset. Typical princess behavior.

When I step out of the bathroom, Blakely is curled up in the recliner, sipping a cup of coffee.

I scoff. “No apology cup this morning?”

“Nope.”

My hackles rise. “You don’t think you owe me one?”

“Nope.”

“Is that all you’re gonna say?”

“Yep.”

“Get ready to go,” I snap, before crossing over to my dresser. She doesn’t answer. What the fuck?

Eight minutes later, Blakely stands at the door, arms crossed, waiting. Without saying anything, I push past her, out into the open air, and stomp over into the clearing on the east side of the cabin. With a grunt, I point to the small ring of rocks. “Sit.” Then I gather up the supplies to get today’s shit done and over.

I’m doing my job and then drinking the afternoon away.

I toss a flint and steel at Blakely’s feet. “Build a fire.” Then I stand and watch. If she thinks she’s getting any other information from me, she’s sorely mistaken.

She holds the pieces like they may bite her before striking them against each other. Her eyes cut to me at the first sparks, but I’m a statue. Blank-faced and stony-eyed. She huffs and tries again. Another shower of sparks, but since she hasn’t set any tinder, nothing’s ever gonna happen.

“Fail. Next.” Before she can argue, I look at the list and say, “Since you can’t start a fire, you can’t boil water, so that’s a fail. You never mastered knots, so building a shelter is a fail. I’m not bothering with foraging. If it doesn’t come with a Michelin star, I’m betting you aren’t interested in eating it. And as far as first aid, given that you needed me to bandage your feet, I’m marking that as a fail, too. Congrats, Princess. You have zero survival skills.”

With every word, Blakely’s face grows redder and redder. I’m being an asshole.

“It’s really shitty that the most words you’ve said to me in five days is the crap you just spewed at me.” She rises to her feet and stands before me, her ocean eyes blazing. “I didn’t ask you to bandage my feet! You did that all on your own. And as far as this bullshit skills assessment, you can kiss my ass.”

“I’m sure you’re used to having people kiss your ass, but that isn’t me, sweetheart.”

“No, you’re just a judgmental jerkwad who uses the guise of teaching to make himself feel better.” Her voice changes into what I assume is a terrible impersonation of me. “Oh, I’m Hudson Brooks, the god of the wilderness, and anyone who can’t live like the Swiss Family Robinson is an idiot.”

My lips twitch. “Swiss Family Robinson?”

“Robinson Crusoe.”

“Are all your examples fictional?”

“Bear Grylls. What the fuck ever. And that’s not the point! The point is, you’re standing here telling me how much I suck, like I don’t already know, rubbing it in. You’re a prick, and I wish I hadn’t come out here.”

A stream of tears starts while she’s yelling, and her voice cracks. My stomach twists. I take one step toward her, but she immediately moves back.

“Don’t you dare touch me. Not after the way you treated me last night and this morning.”

The twist in my gut curls tighter, anger and resentment mixing with regret into a vile mixture. So, of course, bile is what comes out. “Are you shitting me? You’re complaining about how I treated you? You, who thinks I’m too stupid to go to college? You, who has done nothing but turn your nose up and complain since you got here? You wish you weren’t here? Then go the fuck home.”

As soon as I say it, I wish I could take it back. My throat is thick, and no matter how much I swallow, I can’t get rid of the lump there. “Blakely, I didn’t?—”

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