Page 6

Three

M arley

The hotel room is too bright, too quiet, and completely devoid of the massive mountain man who had his hands all over me in a coat room twelve hours ago.

Which is probably for the best, considering I managed to get swept away by my fellow bridesmaids before I could even tell him my last name, like a complete disaster of a human being.

Or find out his name. First, last, middle… I didn’t even overhear a damned nickname.

What would I do with that information anyway? Ask him on a date? My life is set. The course already mapped out. Being reckless with a kiss and some finger work is one thing, but getting my heart involved does not fit the planned program of my life.

Still, the faint beard burn along my jawline makes my chest ache. The tension lingering between my legs reminds me of the overwhelming pleasure of what he did to me. That’s a high I’ll be chasing the rest of my life.

Holy shit.

I throw off the stupid duvet, kicking it off my feet as I pad across the carpet to the bathroom, pressing my palms against the marble countertop and try to get my brain back online.

I have approximately one hour before I need to meet my wilderness survival instructor, and instead of preparing mentally for three days of outdoor humiliation, I'm obsessing over a stranger who called me "little girl" and made me like it.

A stranger I'll probably never see again, I remind myself.

He could be married for all I know. Could be a serial killer. Could be literally anyone. But the way he looked at me, like I'm something precious he wanted to keep...

"Stop it." I reach out and flip the lever on the faucet, sending cold water spilling out of the tap.

I splash it onto my face and get to work making myself look more like the Marley that I know and less like the girl who popped her orgasm cherry with a stranger in a coat closet wearing a pink dress. "You have bigger problems right now."

My thesis advisor called this assignment "immersive research." I call it three days of proving that skipping two grades might mean I’m academically advanced, but it sure as hell hasn't prepared me for real-world survival skills.

I dress in the gear I literally bought yesterday morning in a panic shopping spree at REI halfway to Traverse City. The hiking boots feel like concrete blocks. The moisture-wicking shirt is stiff and the tag is driving me crazy at the back of my neck. Even my backpack still smells like the store.

Perfect. I look exactly like what I am: a complete amateur.

My phone buzzes with a text and my heart drops sure it’s my parents making sure I’m dressed and ready.

If I screw this up and don’t ace the final part of my first of what will likely be many post-grad degrees, they will take it as a personal affront to to their parenting and probably die from shame.

But, the text isn’t from them.

Sarah: Hope you're not too hungover! Remember to actually eat something before you meet Paul Bunyan today. I’ll talk to you when you get back. We’re heading to the air port now. Tahiti here we come!

Before I even set the phone down, it dings four more times in quick succession and I already know it’s my mom. She can’t write more than one sentence per text, instead choosing to blow my phone up with rapid fire messages.

I sigh as I read but they are all variations on the same theme. Each one some variation on ‘I hope you didn’t drink last night,’ then, ‘Keep your nutrition balanced, log your macros, tell that guide your intake requirements,’ and ‘Take good notes.’, ‘We expect only the best from you.’

And the most annoying thing is, they’re right. Because I actually had forgotten to factor in time this morning for breakfast.

Because nothing says "prepared for wilderness survival" like starting the day with a hangover and an empty stomach.

I grab a granola bar from the lobby and load my suitcase into my Honda. I try to remember the directions to Boone's Outdoor Gear. Main Street, a few blocks down from the lodge. Simple enough, even for someone whose navigational skills max out at using Google Maps to find the nearest Starbucks.

Wildfire is the kind of small town that looks like it's been designed by someone who's read too many romance novels about rugged mountain men and the city girls who love them.

Which, considering my current situation, feels like the universe's idea of a joke.

Main Street is lined with shops that have names like "Pine & Provisions" and "Mountain View Mercantile.

" Everything is rustic wood and hunter green paint, like the entire town has agreed to cosplay as a wilderness fantasy.

Boone's Outdoor Gear sits between a coffee shop and a place called "Martha's Kitchen" that already has a line of locals waiting for breakfast. The gear shop looks exactly like what I expected—weathered wood exterior, windows full of camping equipment I can't identify, and a sign that has definitely seen better decades.

A bell chimes when I push through the door, and I'm immediately overwhelmed by the scent of leather and something outdoorsy that reminds me of...

No. Not going there.

The shop is crammed floor to ceiling with equipment that probably has very specific purposes I'll never understand. Tents that look like they could survive a nuclear winter. Backpacks that could carry a small village. Knives that belong in horror movies.

"Be right with you," a gruff voice mutters from somewhere in the back, muffled by distance.

I wander toward the front counter, trying not to touch anything that looks expensive or sharp.

There are business cards scattered next to the register— Cade Boone, Wilderness Survival Instruction —and I grab one to study it, remembering the tag line from the website, "Keeping city folks alive since 2015. "

Charming.

There are also bottles of something called Wildfire Maple in a display case behind the counter with a sign that says they are a hundred dollars a bottle.

Is it whiskey? Or syrup? Wonder what’s in it…

Heavy footsteps break through my syrup thoughts coming from the back room, and I look up with what I hope is a confident smile. Ready to meet my doom. Ready to prove that academic intelligence and real-world competence are two completely different things.

The man who rounds the corner makes the room start to spin.

Massive frame. Dark hair that looks like he's been running his hands through it. Beard that belongs in cologne commercials. And glacier-blue eyes that I've been dreaming about for the past eight hours.

It's him.

Holy fucking shit, it's him.

"Well, well, what do we have here?" he says, those eyes locking onto mine with an expression I can't read. "You look different without all the pink."

My mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

No sound comes out, which is probably for the best because what I want to say is something along the lines of "You're the guy who... in the coat room... with your hands... oh God why am I speaking in fragments?”

I stand there like an idiot, opening and closing my mouth like a fish out of water.

"Uhn," I finally squeak, the involuntary sound strangled, pathetic and more than a little suggestive.

" Uhn ? Not sure I know what that means." His eyebrows rise slightly, and there's definitely amusement lurking in those blue depths.

"I... Uhn…" I clear my throat and try to access some part of my brain that isn't currently screaming. "This is awkward."

"Awkward?" He moves around the counter with that same predatory grace I remember, close enough that I catch his scent that makes my body remember things it has no business remembering right now. "Not for me."

"You're Cade Boone." It isn't a question.

"And you are Miss Marley Voss." He leans against the counter, studying me like I'm a particularly interesting specimen. "Nineteen years old, journalism major, no outdoor experience. My booking agent said it should be an easy gig."

The way he says "easy" makes heat pool in my belly, which is completely inappropriate considering we're supposed to have a professional relationship for the next three days.

“You were at the wedding in jeans and flannel. But you weren’t at the wedding at all, were you? You weren’t a guest?”

He shakes his head. “Naw. Just dropping off business cards when I saw you bolting for the bathroom with a glass of champagne and that bouquet that ‘bout knocked you out. But for the record, even if I was at the wedding, I’d still be in flannel. Nobody puts me in a fucking suit. Not now, not ever. Ties are just another form of noose.”

"This is..." I gesture helplessly between us. "We can't... I mean, after last night..."

"What about last night?" His voice is perfectly casual, but there's something dangerous in his eyes that makes me remember exactly how he commanded me to look at him while he made me come.

"You know what about last night!" The words come out sharper than I intended, fueled by panic and embarrassment and the fact that my body is already responding to his proximity like it has some kind of Pavlovian conditioning.

"I know a lot of things about last night." He straightens up, suddenly towering over me in a way that should be intimidating, but instead makes me want to climb him like a tree. "You'll have to be more specific."

Is he seriously going to make me say it? Out loud? In broad daylight? In his place of business?

"The coat room ," I hiss, glancing around to make sure we're alone. "The... the things you did. The things we did."

"Ah." His mouth quirks up in what might be a smile. "You mean when I taught you what a real man feels like? What a real man makes you feel?"

Heat floods my cheeks. "Yes. That."

"What about it?"

I stare at him, completely at a loss. Is he pretending it doesn't matter? Is this some kind of test? Is he planning to act like nothing happened while we spend three days alone in the wilderness?