Page 77 of Fighting Spirit

“He’s got some cooking class.” I reach out a hand to steady her.

“So now it’s our problem?”

My chest swells at the way she saysour. “Nobody’s making you be here,” I tease.

“Aren’t they?” She smirks. “I seem to remember some grumpy football player showing up outside my apartment and bundling me into his truck.”

“I didn’t bundle anybody.”

“Not this time.”

“Not any time!” I throw my hands up, hitting my knuckles against a branch. I hiss as I realize it’s taken off the top layer of skin, the back of my hand turning an angry red.

Dammit. As soon as Trevor came into my room this morning looking sheepish, I knew I was in trouble. Now I’ve got an open wound, and we’re still no closer to finding the phone he claims he dropped somewhere on this trail.

“Oh shit, are you okay?” Ruth stops, taking my hand and pulling it closer for inspection. Something in my stomachtightens as she blows over the scratches, her warm breath ghosting over my fingers. Her eyelashes flutter over her cheeks as she stares intently at whatever damage she’s seeing.

I barely feel a thing. Instead, all I can feel is a desire to trace the line of her nose with my fingertips, to run my thumbs over her cheeks until I can tip her face up to meet mine. I practically ache with the strength of it, the yearning that’s so foreign to me but still feels right. It’s like all this time, I’ve just been waiting for her.

“Better.” My voice comes out husky. Her gaze darts up to meet mine, and I can see that heat reflected back at me.

For a second, I debate snaking an arm around her waist and pulling her flush against me, but I hear the distant murmur of other hikers somewhere further up the trail. Instead, I grab her fingers with mine and press a quick kiss to her knuckles before releasing her to continue on our walk.

“How does somebody even lose their phone on a hike?”

“He says he dropped it taking pictures.”

“What, like off a cliff?” she asks incredulously.

“Nah, I don’t think even he’s stupid enough to send us out after that.”

We hit a log on the path and I move behind Ruth, enjoying her squeak of surprise as I grasp her hips and lift her over in a single movement. I try not to think too hard about the feel of her under my hands. This really isn’t the place for my libido to suddenly come out of hibernation.

The feeling’s unfamiliar, I’ve never been that caveman guy who wanted to throw a girl over his shoulder before, but something about Ruth makes me a little feral. It’s like by finally getting my head out of my ass and admitting I’m crazy about her, I’ve burst through a dam, and I can’t make it stop.

As the path opens out we’re able to walk side by side. Our hands swing next to one another, occasionally brushing andknocking together. I go to intertwine them, desperate to feel her soft palm against my fingers, but she spots something just ahead and jogs forward, ponytail swinging behind her.

I watch her examine a leaf caught on a cobweb, her eyes narrowed in intense fascination. She’s been quiet today, her thoughts elsewhere. I know things with school have been tough, but recently, whenever I ask, she shuts it down fast. It makes me think there’s something more going on.

I decide to press a little. “Has that class gotten any better?” I ask.

It’s exactly the wrong thing to say. I must have prodded at a tender spot because she picks up a rock and hurls it through the trees. “Hey, hey, woah.” I grab her shoulders, spinning her into my chest, where she lands her forehead under my chin. We’ve somehow gone from zero to a hundred, but it doesn’t really seem like the time for questions, so I just go with it.

Grumbles spill out of her as she burrows her nose into my neck. I shouldn’t find it cute, she’s obviously going through something, but damn. I wrap my arms around her, giving her the kind of tight squeeze I like when my brain gets all over the place. “What’s going on, Frog?” I ask.

“I’m a toad,” she growls into my shoulder. I smile as I kiss the top of her head.

“Is there really a difference?”

“Shut up.” Even as she feigns irritation, her arms return the hug. We sway back and forth while she takes some deep breaths, the tension bracketing her shoulders slowly easing.

“You gonna tell me what that was about?” I mumble into her hair.

“Ugh,” she whines. “I hate that class. I can never pay attention and my professor hates me.”

“I’m sure they don’t.”

“Oh, he does. He keeps threatening to fail me.”

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