Page 88 of Roughing It

“BBs! Did you see that? I hit the target!” Sprinting towardthe camera, I pick it up and race across the clearing to get a close-up of my arrow wedged into the target. “I’m going to practice more, so keep your eyes peeled for photos later today.”

Once the livestream ends, I launch myself into Hudson’s arms. “I did it! I hit the target,” I squeal as I pepper kisses over his cheeks and lips.

“You sure did. Proud of you.” A playful glint lights up his eyes. “Now, where were we in our lesson?”

During our “hands-on” lesson, I came. Twice. We spent hours shooting, and I even hit the center target—something I bragged about on the entire ride to the cabin.

Now, I’m on the ground between Hudson’s legs while his large, calloused hands work out the aches in my arms, shoulders, and back. I used muscles I didn’t know I had today, and my body is not happy about it.

As Hudson kneads a tough knot in my upper back, I sip a glass of whiskey, my throat burning as the alcohol slides down, spreading its heat. The fire crackles, filling the cabin with warmth and comfortable background noise. Goddammit. I could get used to this life.

But no matter how many hands-on lessons Hudson gives me, I can’t keep pretending time isn’t real.

DAY SEVENTEEN

I wake the next morning—after another nightmare-free night—fingers itching to shoot again. Can I tie a good knot yet? No.Can I tell my north from my east yet? Nope. Can I build a fire using wood scraps and brush? Not even close.

But I can shoot a motherfucking arrow. Okay, that makes me sound like more of a badass than I am, but still, I’m proud of myself. This is one of the only things Hudson has taught me that I haven’t messed up. I guess I didn’t do anything terrible during our foraging trip except eat that disgusting chokecherry raw. But everything else, even fishing—especially fishing—has been a disaster.

“What’s on your mind?” Hudson’s deep voice startles me.

How am I supposed to go back to sleeping alone? Who’s going to care about me? What will I do when I’m sitting in my apartment surrounded by people but more lonely than before? What happens if I stay?

But of course, I don’t say any of that. Instead, I snuggle into his arms and bury my nose in the crook of his neck. He smells so good. Like fresh air and pine trees and something spicy. “Can we shoot again?”

“How are your muscles?”

I stretch, rubbing against him like a cat. “Not bad, actually. Your fingers are magic in more ways than one.”

“And,” he swallows, “how are you feeling about what Kirk said? About having your trip back to Austin planned.”

“Like I don’t want to talk about it.” I lift my head, resting my chin on his stomach. “You?”

He grunts. “Same.”

Avoidance, table for two.It’s a weird web we’ve woven for ourselves. I’m drawn to Hudson, to his grumpy personality that protects a gentle heart. To his adorable freckles that soften his rugged beauty. To the safety of his hold and the heat of his touch. But the massive clock counting down above our heads reminds me this can never be more than a fling.

Fling. I wrinkle my nose and mentally toss that word away. Hudson Brooksis no fling. He’s a deep well you fall into and hope you never find your way out of.

Thick fingers wind in my hair. “We have to talk, eventually.”

“Eventually,” I agree. Then I blow a raspberry above his happy trail and scramble off the bed before he can retaliate by tickling me. “But for now, let’s go shoot some targets.”

We arrive back in the clearing from yesterday, and Hudson staggers the distance of two of the targets while I stretch.

“Do you remember your steps?”

“Yes, Hudson, it was twenty-four hours ago,” I sniff, pouting at him.

“Considering what a disaster your first attempt was...”

Glaring, I spin, grab the bow, and notch the arrow. Then I repeat the mantra he taught me: “Breathe, focus, release.”

The arrow flies from my bow and hits the target with a solid thud. I make my besttold you soface.

“Before you get too proud, can you hit it twice?”

I toss my hair. “Of course I can. Just watch.”

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