Page 23 of Squatch Out!
“D-d-d-don’t-t-t kn-n-n-n-n?—”
Owen pushes me toward the bathroom, grabbing a towel out of the linen closet on the way. “Take a shower and get warm. I’ll get the guest room ready for you when you’re done. Then you’re going to sleep, and we’ll talk about this tomorrow.”
Before I can argue with him, he pushes me through the doorway and shuts me inside.
I stand under the hot spray until my body temperature rises to an acceptable level, and then until the hot water runs cold. Only then do I dry myself and dress in the sweats Owen left me to sleep in.
The house is dark when I let myself out of the bathroom, and I start to cross the hallway to the guest room, only my feet take me to the left. Back into the living room, past the couch where Olivia is sleeping soundly, to the loveseat across from her.
I’m twice as long as it, but I curl my frame into it anyway, pulling a quilt draped across the back to cover myself. With my head resting on a too-firm decorative pillow, I watch my woman sleep.
She’s not mine.
Yes. She is.
My head throbs as my splintered mind argues with itself over the woman across from me. I’m not sure how long I watch her, but the eastern sky is starting to lighten when my eyes finally drift shut, and they don’t open again.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
OLIVIA
Adull ache in my lower back drags me from the deep sleep I was enjoying. Rolling onto my back, I stretch it out so I can go back to sleep, but the moment my eyes flutter open, I realize I’m not in my tent. All hope of going back to sleep disappears.
I really need to stop waking up in strange places.
The same park ranger who brought me down from the cave came to my rescue again last night. But instead of taking me back to the campsite, he brought me to his house. We were waiting for Owen’s brother to return with his truck, then he was supposed to take me back, but obviously that didn’t happen. Tony and Brian are probably freaking out.
I take in the rustic room and note the differences between Owen’s house compared to the house Bigfoot brought me to. The thick stained beams that stretch across the ceiling and the clean white walls are nearly identical. So is the fact that there isn’t much for wall hangings. But Owen’s furniture all matches, and his front door isn’t hanging off its hinges. The other house was definitely someone’s bachelor pad.
The leather couch creaks under me, and the bare skin on my arm sticks, making afllllpppsound when I roll to my side. I start to push myself up to sit when I notice the smaller couch across from me is occupied. At first, I think it’s Owen who’s barely contained within the much-too-small loveseat. But I quickly realize that, unless Owen suddenly aged backward and lightened his hair, it can’t be him.
The man is stretched out on his stomach, with one leg hanging over the side and the other stretched over the armrest. His face is turned toward me, with one arm curled tightly against his chest and the other stretched out so it’s hanging over the opposite armrest like his leg. A quilt is bunched around his waist. I lick my lips as I take in all the tanned skin covering his strong muscles, then scold myself for staring at him like that.
Even deeply asleep, this man looks exhausted. Bruised circles shadow where thick dark lashes fan across his cheeks. The way his neck is cranked up at an angle makes me wince—he’s going to be sore when he wakes.
His breaths are deep and even as I watch him from across the room. His nose hooks slightly at the end and his brows are thicker in the center before tapering at both ends, both identical to Owen’s features.
This must be the brother he told me about. And also,damn…Owen is a good-looking guy, but his brother might be the most beautiful man I’ve ever set eyes on.
They share similar angular faces with high cheekbones and a chiseled jaw, but this man’s tousled hair is a longer, lighter brown with streaks of blond and red instead of silver. My fingers itch to brush away the strands that have fallen across his closed eyes. To lightly stroke along his jaw that is shadowed by a few days’ growth of beard. Would his skin feel soft or bristled?
“Good morning,” Owen says as he passes in front of the couch on his way to the kitchen.
I jump, clutching at my chest as heat rushes into my face at being caught staring at his sleeping brother.
“Do you want some coffee?” he asks, not realizing the mini-heart attack he just gave me. “I have some milk and sugar, but none of that fancy stuff.”
I glance back at the sleeping man and let out a relieved sigh. If Owen caught me ogling his brother, at least he’s being polite enough not to mention it.
I push myself up so I’m sitting with both feet on the floor. “Um, coffee and milk would be great. Thank you.”
I’m still in my clothes from yesterday, and I nervously run my fingers through my messy hair. I’ve never been good around strangers and strange places. Even when I was a kid, I was usually the one begging to be picked up early from a slumber party. The awkwardness of waking up in Owen’s home, where I’m at the whim of his unfamiliar routine has my heart fluttering.
A few minutes later, Owen returns to the living room and hands me a steaming mug with a USFS emblem on the side. He’s carrying a matching mug.
“Did you sleep alright?” He falls back into his leather recliner.
“Yes. Thank you.” I blow across the top of the milky coffee before taking a sip. I can’t help my satisfied hum when the warm bitterness hits my tongue. “Thank you for letting me crash here, but I should probably get back to camp. My friends are going to be worried.”
