Page 43 of Unhurried Hearts

“But this is Canada.”

“You know, you said you were kind of sheltered growing up, but I didn’t realize it was quite this bad.” He smirks, bumping me with his shoulder. “We’ll make a regular Annie Oakley out of you yet.”

I tear my eyes away from a display of what I think are crossbows. “You have one? A gun? That you own?”

“A couple.”

“You are not the man I thought I knew.”

He runs his thumb across mine and leans down to rumble in my ear, “You don’t know me at all, Anna. Not yet.”

Having his lips in such proximity to my neck sends a tingle down my spine that makes the fine hairs on my arms stand on end.

“What, um, what are we getting?” I stammer.

He grabs a water bottle from a shelf, turning it over. I curse my brain for falling victim to him so easily. I can’t evenlookat his hands without remembering what they feel like inside me.

“Shoes, a backpack, a tent,” he continues to list items as he wanders away down an aisle.

I process the list, squeezing my eyes closed in confusion.

“Don’t you have all that stuff?”

“It’s for you.”

“Me?”

“Did you fall asleep on me this morning?”

I turn pink at the memory of the morning, of how exhausted I felt afterwards.

“That’s a very real possibility. Refresh me?”

Chris’s laugh is rich. “We’re going camping, Annie. Two nights. Me and you.”

He wanders off through a section of densely packed clothing racks leaving me rooted to the carpet. Now it makes sense why he was so animated the whole drive.

I hurry after him, weaving around a display of whistles.

“I can’t be responsible for what I said while I was asleep!”

Visions of pitch-black tents and bugs and rain hit rapid fire. Being cuddled up in said tent, though, that might not besobad.

We reach a wall of hiking boots and I pick up one with red laces that look cuter than I thought. I catch the eye of a middle-aged salesman in plaid. “These in a seven, please.”

Chris returns with an armful of backpacks that look like they are primarily constructed of buckles and pockets.

“These two,” he drops a couple of the packs on the bench near me, “are ladies' packs. And this one,” he holds it up beneath his chin with a smile, “is a child’s pack–”

“Very funny.”

Cool. Nothing like being referred to as a child by the guy you desperately hope will dick you down.

“Hear me out. The packs are measured by torso length. C’mon.”

He helps me into it and then circles me, adjusting straps here and there. One particularly strong pull of the chest strap sends me tipping backward. His large hands encircle my waist, pulling me upright. My breath hitches at the contact, at the way his thumbs graze my bottom ribs. I wiggle out of his grip before I pop a lady boner at the Outdoor Emporium.

Chris’s hand hovers over the chest clip of the pack. “Let’s take this off. Do you like it?”

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