Page 35 of Her Wild Coast Refuge

Relief settles into my stomach. I gulp a breath of cool air into my lungs.

“Damn,” Quinn says in a shaky tone.

Across from us, the willows ripple with the bear family’s progress toward the opposite ridge. We’re safe.

We stand up, and I nod at the bear spray. “You ever had to use that?”

She shakes her head.

“Don’t tell me you weren’t scared out of your mind?”

Her scowl is downright cute. “Maybe a little.”

I poke her in the side. “Just a little, huh?”

She jumps sideways, her eyes flashing with a playful gleam. “This is Alaska. We like it wild.”

My blood pumps low into my core. I raise an eyebrow. “Is that right?”

Lexie’s face tenses. She glances at Quinn standing close behind her, then back to me.

I remember Quinn’s dare. What if Lexie wanted more from us?

“Exactly how wild do you like it, sweetheart?” I ask.

Lexie stands completely still, her eyes unafraid. “I…I don’t know.”

Quinn brushes the hair off her neck and leans close. “Wild like having Dawson watch us kiss?”

Lexie’s eyelashes flutter closed, her breaths rising and falling faster. “Maybe.”

Quinn kisses the crook of her neck, the embrace of his lips on her skin like a shot of adrenaline to my cock.

“This is something you do,” Lexie says while Quinn strokes down her arm with the back of his fingers. “Isn’t it? The two of you.”

“We’re a good team,” I say with a sly smile.

Lexie releases a shaky sigh. “When you’re not married, you mean.”

I glance at Quinn, and he lifts an eyebrow. Is this where we tell her that Brielle and I agreed to certain liberties, as long as we’re discreet and follow a few specific rules? I haven’t had the urge to explain or defend this before, and I’m finding it hard to do so now. It sounds so fucking shallow, when in truth it’s agony. A casual fling might scratch an itch, but each one brands my soul with the devil’s mark.

“I’mnot married,” Quinn says with a wink.

To my delight, Lexie laughs. “Let’s get out of here.”

According to the menu,Jack’s Barbecue Shack dates back to the gold rush days, when the original Jack greased his ribs with grizzly bear fat.

We order ribs and chicken, a basket of buttermilk rolls, corn on the cob, and coleslaw, then carry our order card to the outdoor patio. It’s packed, and loud with conversation mixed with laughter, but we snag a table overlooking what could be a decent view if the clouds decide to melt off. In the corner, a trio of musicians are setting up on the tiny stage. I eye Quinn, wondering if he secretly planned this. He’s sneaky that way.

A waitress wearing a calico-printed apron over her loose-fitting dress drops off our beers.

“To surviving our first bear attack.” I raise my glass.

“That hardly counts as an attack,” Lexie says with a laugh. “She didn’t even notice us.”

“It counts in our book,” Quinn insists.

We tap glasses and drink.

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