Page 19 of When It's Us
“I don’t know why you don’t spend the time here with your father, sister, and me. But I’m sure you have your reasons.”
Rubbing my neck, I let out a sigh and ignore the fact that I’vealreadyleft. “Mom, we’ve been over this. The house is too crowded with Lexie and the kids there. And I haven’t seen my friends in months.”
Honestly, I stay away from my parents and my sister because it’s easier that way. My sister’s living the dream—white picket fence, two and a half kids (she’s due in September with another girl), and a ridiculously attentive husband who's always off on a business trip. Meanwhile, my parents are still putting on this fake show for their rich friends, which is complete bullshit. And me? I’m out here feeling more lost than ever.
I’m just floating out here on the sea of single, with two almost six-year-olds, a dog that only likes me half the time, and a drawer full of vibrators that would make Hugh Hefner blush. And I’m so fucking lonely.
“Andwehaven’t seen youorthe boys in over a year. And you don’t even like the outdoors—”
“Mom, stop,” I say, ignoring the guilt trip. But her statement isn’t untrue. I haven’t seen any of my family since Christmas before last. I hate that conversations with my mom always leave me feeling like a fifteen-year-old with a messy bedroom.
While I hate to admit it, she’s not entirely wrong. I love the water and the sun, and we have a backyard pool, but I’d rather spend my day lounging arounditthan at the beach getting sand in every available crevice of my body. Mostly because I’m chasing two kids around instead of relaxing. But spending a few weeks with Wren and Finn was what I wanted. And the two times I’d been there hadn’t been bad.
It also didn’t hurt that I’d had my world rocked—twice—by the tatted-up recluse with a cock that should have its own zip code and a tongue that melts my insides. The one that happens to be glancing my way right now with a cocked brow and a knowing grin.
I hold no plans ofthatever happening again, especially since he’s the male equivalent of Samantha Jones, but Montana has other perks, the best of which: I won’t be alone. Although I wish I were for this conversation.
Why do I let her get to me like this? It’s not as if I actually care what she thinks. But if that’s true, why do I suddenly feel fifteen again?
“Ginger, are you listening to me?”
My mother’s voice snaps me back to the conversation.
“Mom, sorry, I’m getting a call. I have to go.”
She sighs, and I roll my eyes. “Okay, but make sure you get some of that eye cream, okay? I think it’ll really help brighten up your features. Just because you’re closing in on forty doesn’t mean you have to look it.”
I cringe inwardly and nod. “Bye, Mom.”
I drop my phone into my lap and let out a sigh. Thankfully, the man next to me doesn’t speak. I don’t know if I could have a conversation without bursting into tears of embarrassment, even if I wanted to.
Hutch
Wemadeittothe campsite and set up an hour ago, and we’ve been on the hiking trail for all of ten minutes, and she’s already complaining. However, judging by that conversation with her mom, I’m not surprised.
At first, I’d found it slightly amusing that she was forced to have a conversation she obviously didn’t want to, especially with me sitting next to her. But as the call went on, it was clear that Ginger and her mother had a strained relationship. Obviously, I have zero idea what a healthy mother-daughter relationship should look like since I’m neither a mother nor a daughter. Still, after witnessing that exchange, I’m starting to understand the woman walking along in front of me a little bit more.
I’m starting to think Ginger and I aren’t that far apart. I think maybe she’s got some demons too.
My brothers would say I camouflage mine with tequila and sticking my dick in anything that moves.
And Ginger? She hides hers just as well.
Her scars—likely courtesy of her peach of a mother—are buried beneath haughty looks and impeccably tailored outfits. That, and fear. Fear of what, I’m not sure. But it’s a safe bet control is one of the things she clings to for dear life.
What I wouldn’t give to see her let go. Be real. Even for five minutes.
By looking at her, it’s not hard to tell that Ginger Westbrook is not outdoorsy. She trudges up ahead of me, her heart-shaped ass in those little beige shorts holding all my attention. The bounce of each of her cheeks—firm, yet soft—is like a siren call straight to my cock. I imagine peeling the shorts from her body, exposing every delicious inch of what I remember is underneath. She’s curvy as all hell and her copper waves bouncing against her back in time with her steps are begging me to wrap my fist in them.
Despite what her mom says about the so-called bags under her eyes—total bullshit—I’ve been checking her out for the past two hours. And that comment about gaining weight? If anything, she’s never looked sexier. I’ve only been around Ginger a handful of times since we met less than a year ago, but she still manages to look absolutely stunning every single time.
“Is this even a trail?” she asks, grunting out the words as she bends to swat at something on her knee. “I swear this isn’t even a trail.”
“Did you somehow miss the marker back there?” I ask with a hint of amusement, my thumbs hooked in the straps of my pack on my back. The trail isn’t even dense through here and she acts like we’re in the middle of nowhere.
Her cheeky attitude is back in full force, and she moves with that easy confidence I’ve gotten used to. My eyes track every inch of exposed skin—her shoulders, arms, legs. The white tank and tight biker shorts hug her curves in all the right ways, showing off a downright mouthwatering hourglass figure—especially from behind. She’s got an ass I’d love to sink my teeth into.
She sighs. “Well, do you even know where we’re going? It’s nothing but overgrown trees and spider webs out here.”
