Page 41 of Roughing It

blakely

Hudson Brooks is going to be the death of me. Cause of death? Emotional whiplash. I seriously can’t keep up with him.

The past few days have been awful. I’ve put on a happy face for the camera, but as soon as I finish recording, silence falls over the cabin, and I hate it. But Hudson pissed me off and hurt me. So I keep all my witty thoughts to myself, even if I have to grit my teeth to do it. I’m a little stubborn. It’s the Taurus in me.

The divide between us hasn’t kept me from drifting to Hudson while asleep, and honestly, wrapped in that grumpy bear’s arms, I’ve never slept better. But then the sun rises, and so does my frustration—along with the desire to punch him in his adorably freckled face.Or kiss it.

The presumptive bastard said I was judging him. Ha! If he knew how I grew up… I shake my head, shutting down that line of thinking as I adjust my bikini top. Kirk thought I was silly for packing a swimsuit, so I snap a quick selfie with a single-finger salute to show him how wrong he was.

I have no idea why I need my swimsuit, just that Hudsonasked me to trust him.Idiot, party of one.Didn’t I tell myself I wouldn’t let him fool me again?

But for some stupid reason—one that is more sexually motivated than I should admit—I do trust him, at least with pieces of myself. I’m safe with him. He won’t physically hurt me.

Emotionally, though? Jury’s out.

I twist my hair to get it off my neck, then give myself a once over in the mirror. I’m makeup-free, and I don’t hate it. Things like his insistence that I don’t need to contour and shade my face into someone else’s lure me back in. Every time Hudson shows me who he could be—a hair-tucking, foot-rubbing, dream-kissing wonder of a man—I want more. Who is he beyond the gruff nature-expert persona? What material built the walls around his heart? Because judging by our fight, that shit is durable.

Like I have any room to talk. I didn’t just build walls; I built a whole newmeto get away from my past.

Hudson knocks on the bathroom door. “You ready?”

I’m vain enough to admit I love how his mouth falls open and his eyes heat when he sees me. With his hand still in the air, he stutters over his words. “You, uh, that color, looks… wow.”

Gesturing to my turquoise swimsuit, I say, “This color looks wow?” When his ears turn pink, I nudge him in the ribs. “Thank you, I think. Your color also looks wow.”

And it does. Muscular arms peek out from the fitted white t-shirt, and gray sweatpants hug his thighs—and other parts. I’ve always loved a thicker man, and Hudson Brooks isthick.

“But,” I wrinkle my brow, “where is your swimsuit?”

“Under.” As he answers, he tosses a pair of sweats and an oversized shirt at me. I stand there, holding both items, until he huffs. “Didn’t figure you had any ratty clothes.”

Thememory of opening a drawer and finding a family of mice living in my favorite Barbie pajama dress makes my stomach knot. Fighting a shudder, I push the image and the wordrattyfrom my mind and slip the clothes—his clothes—over my swimsuit.

They drown my smaller frame and engulf me in his scent. If he wasn’t watching me, I’d pull the collar to my nose and use it like a scuba mask.

“Here.” He thrusts coffee into my hands. “Owed you one.”

I stand there with my eyebrows quirked, a question on my face despite knowing what he means. Am I a little evil? Maybe. But I’m okay with it.

Another huff. “Apology coffee. It was, uh, my turn.” He rubs the back of his head.

Hiding my grin behind the warm tumbler of go-go juice, I extend my hand in anafter youmotion. But rather than leaving, Hudson goes to the kitchen and throws fruit, cheese, bread, and other snacks into a pack.

“Are you taking me on a romantic picnic?” I ask, hiking the too-long sweats up, Urkle style, in a futile attempt to get them off the ground.

He freezes and gives me a look of complete and utter bewilderment. “A picnic?”

“Aromanticpicnic,” I correct, not bothering to hide my smile now. Having Hudson Brooks on the ropes may be a better high than social media.

“No. It makes sense to bring food.”

“Should I bring a blanket for our picnic date?”

“It isn’t a picnic. Or a date.”

“Hmmm, a handsome man, a beautiful woman, a mystery destination, tasty food… put all that together, and it can only mean one thing—picnic date.”

“It’s not a picnic.” Hudson slings the bag over his shoulderand then, like it’s habit, places his hand on my lower back. The shivers are instantaneous. This is what his touch does to me.

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