Page 2 of Big and Rowdy
The rescue operation takes all of ten minutes. His four-wheeler pulls the boulder aside like it weighs nothing, and I'm able to reverse out of the tight spot without any trouble. When I climb out of my SUV, he's coiling his chain with the satisfied expression of someone who's just solved a problem.
"Well," I say, grudgingly impressed despite myself, "I guess I owe you a thank you."
"You could buy me a beer sometime," he suggests, his tone casual but his eyes hopeful in a way that makes my stomach flutter.
I consider him. He's attractive, no question about that. And he's been surprisingly respectful during the whole rescue operation, despite the flirtation. But I've learned to be wary of men who lead with charm.
"Maybe," I say finally. "If you're ever in town."
"Oh, I'm in town plenty." He swings back onto his four-wheeler, but doesn't start the engine yet. "Boulder's Pub. Thursday nights—that's tomorrow, if you're wondering. In case you change your mind about that beer…"
With that, he fires up the machine and roars off through the trees, leaving me standing in a cloud of dust and possibility.
I watch until the sound of his engine fades, then shake my head and climb back into my SUV.
As I do, I find myself thinking about calloused hands and knowing grins, and wondering if maybe, I might find myself at Boulder's Pub tomorrow night.
two
Boone
ThursdaynightatBoulder'sPub, I'm holding court at my usual corner table, nursing a beer and trying not to check the door every five minutes. I'd been hoping Savannah would show up after our encounter on the trail, but I hadn't been sure she actually would. There's something about her that's gotten under my skin since we met, and the thought of seeing her again has me more on edge than I want to admit.
Old Pete is hunched over his regular corner table, while a group of loggers I know from the mill talk loudly near the pool tables. The usual Thursday crowd, except I'm finding it hard to concentrate on any of their conversations. I keep glancing at the door.
When she finally walks through it, scanning the dim interior with those sharp green eyes.
Savannah traded her hiking gear for jeans and a soft sweater that brings out her eyes, and she moves with the same confident grace I remember from the trail. She’s fucking gorgeous, shortand soft, pear-shaped. Generous curves with thick hips that I can’t help but imagine grabbing a hold of.
She spots me before I can decide whether to wave her over, and I stand up with what I hope is a casual smile.
"Well, look who decided to take me up on that beer." I can hear the genuine pleasure in my own voice, and I make no attempt to hide it.
"I was in town anyway," she says, aiming for nonchalant and probably missing by a mile. "Figured I might as well see what passes for nightlife around here."
"This is about as exciting as it gets, unless you count the annual chili cook-off," I say, gesturing to an empty chair across from me. "But the beer's cold and the company's not terrible."
Despite herself, she sits down. I notice she chooses the chair that lets her see most of the pub—a smart woman who likes to keep an eye on her surroundings.
"Modest, aren't you?"
"One of my many fine qualities." I signal the bartender for another round. "So, Savannah Mitchell, freelance wilderness explorer. What's your story?"
"Freelance graphic designer, actually. The wilderness exploring is just for fun." She accepts the beer I slide across to her. "And it's not that exciting a story."
"I'll be the judge of that." I lean back in my chair, giving her my full attention. "Most people don't tackle those mountain trails solo. Especially not that particular trail."
She takes a sip of the beer, and her expression betrays that surprised to find it's actually quite good. "I started camping with my dad when I was a kid. After he died a few years ago, I decided life was too short to wait for someone else to be ready for adventure. Also discovered I'm terrible at staying in one place. Three months in the same apartment and I start climbing the walls."
"I'm sorry about your dad."
"Thank you." There's something vulnerable in the way she says it that makes me want to reach across the table and take her hand. "He would have loved these mountains. We always talked about coming out here together."
"He would've been proud of you for making the trip anyway."
The certainty in my voice seems to surprise her. "You don't even know me."
"Know enough." My eyes meet hers across the table. "Takes guts to tackle life on your own terms. Not everyone's built for it."
