Page 95 of Roughing It

It doesn’t register that I’m squeezing her. But the thought of teenage Blakely alone in Austin, sleeping in her fucking car? A growl thunders in my throat.

Her lips brush against mine, and I let her soothe me because I’m a selfish bastard. It should be me comforting her. She’s so much stronger than I ever gave her credit for. She should’ve punched me in the mouth the first time I called her a princess.

“You done squishing me, Bear?” At my sheepish nod, her dainty fingers smooth the wrinkles from my brow. “An older couple who owned a small brunch place gave me a job waiting tables and washing dishes. The unspoken agreement was Icould sleep in the backroom. Before it was a restaurant, it was a home, and they left the shower untouched during the remodel, so like I said, lucky.”

I swallow. She’s being so open. With her body last night and with her heart and memories now.

“Sylvie and Buster, the couple who owned The SweetStack, helped me get an apartment once I’d saved up some money. Eventually, I had enough to take some adult learning classes. Turns out I have a knack for graphic and web design. I ended up staying on at The SweetStack until I’d build up a steady client base.”

She sighs. “I way overshared, didn’t I?”

“Nope. I love hearing all about you.” Frowning, I say, “I’m so sorry, baby.”

“I have some… hangups with small towns.”

Under-fucking-standably. “I can’t speak for everyone, but most folks in Trail Creek are decent. They’d never stand by and let something like that happen. And even if they did, I sure as shit wouldn’t.”

Blakely’s petal-soft lips skim against the pulse point in my neck, but she doesn’t say anything.

“How about we go into town tomorrow? Let you check it out for yourself.” This might backfire, but we have twelve days, and I plan to enjoy every minute. The guaranteed time promised to me. If taking her to Trail Creek—a factor I didn’t know I was contending with—increases her chances of staying longer, who am I to complain?

“I’m not sure. I’m supposed to stay out here in the wilderness.” She weakly gestures around us.

“Kirk’s on vacation. And besides, you’re a grown-ass woman. You’ve shown me more than once you do what you want.”

This earns me a smile. A small one that barely curves herlips, but it still has me staring at her like a moonstruck moron. Her lips meet mine in a fleeting kiss. I grunt, partly at the sneak attack and partly at how quickly she ends it.

“And today?” she asks.

Grinning, I say, “Today feels like a hot spring day.”

“No knots or navigating?”

“Nope, just relaxing.” I scrape my teeth over the sensitive flesh beneath her ear, then gently suck. She moans and tilts her head, giving me the access I crave. “No phones. No worries.”

Blakely softens at my touch. “You forgot one thing,” she whispers against my lips. “No swimsuits.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

blakely

DAY NINETEEN

I sit in Hudson’s Jeep, repeatedly laying on the horn. “Hudson, hurry up! I’m ready to go!”

Curled in Hudson’s arms this morning, I considered asking him to cancel the day trip into Trail Creek, but he woke up with a smile. Okay, not a smile, but not a full frown, which is practically beaming for him. No way was I ruining his good mood, even if my mischievous side likes him grumpy.

While I wait, only honking the horn every thirty seconds instead of every ten—I’m not a total brat—I pull up my socials and scroll through.

Though Hudson deemed yesterday a phone-free outing, I talked him into taking a picture of me from behind. In it, the tops of my shoulders and my profile are visible, along with the lip of the hot spring and the stunning view it overlooks. It’s a beautiful picture.

You always did put on airs.

The comment stops me in my tracks. Not because it’s particularly cruel, but because of who it’s from—my mother.

I’m not surprised she’s crawling out of the woodwork, given the way the fishing post—and each subsequent one—exploded. I bite down so hard my teeth clack together. Wonder how much she’ll ask for. It’s happened a handful of times since I first gained popularity. If I don’t want the world to know about Blake Lee’s pitiful existence, all I have to do is pay her off. Mother of the year, right there.

An echo of Brandee Shaw’s gaunt face sneers at me, accusing me of being uppity and too good for Hawthorne and her. A dry laugh huffs from my lips. As if wanting clean clothes, hair, and water, or a bug and asshole-free place to sleep is the same asputting on airs.

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