This is exactly what I needed. A day of intense activity. Fresh air. Remembering some of the survival skills I haven’t had touse in years. I sweep my gaze around me. Puget Sound is mostly dark, a single ferry chugging along in the distance. Stars glitter in the sky—so many more than back in Seattle. There isn’t much light pollution out here, and it reminds me of the first time I reallylookedup at the sky in Afghanistan. We’d been in country for three weeks. Almost died half a dozen times, but that night, I glanced up, and it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.
A light winks on at the top of the hill. Is that a house? I hadn’t noticed it earlier. I fish my binoculars out of my ruck and dial in the focus.
Nat steps through a pair of french doors out onto a small deck, a mug in one hand. Her fingers comb through her dark hair, and she leans an elbow on the railing.
Look away, asshole. You’re not a stalker.
But I can’t. She’s gorgeous. Something about her calls to me in a way I don’t understand.
“You don’t know the basics, you’re on your own.”
I never considered I might have a degradation kink, but Nat’s dismissal—along with her sexy as fuck voice—might be a sign I actually do.
Fucking hell. I have to stay away from her. She’s probably been hit on by every single guy who’s come to the resort, and I’m not looking for anything.
My dick disagrees with me. It’s been six years since it last touched anything but my own hand. Six years since I felt…anything. For anyone.
The first whiff of burnt onion hits my nose.Fuck. This is what I get for not paying attention to the fire—and my dinner. I toss the binoculars back into the tent and ease the grill basket away from the flames. The clams are a little singed, and the onions are nothing more than soot. But the carrots and mushrooms I brought with me from Seattle are still edible.
I was going to eat under the stars, but if I stay out here, I’ll be tempted to spend the entire night staring up at Nat’s house, hoping for one more glimpse of her. Or worse. Wondering what I could legitimately need that would let me give her a call.
Three Weeks Later
Natasha
Streaksof purple and red turn the sky into an impressionist painting. Curled in a chair on my deck, I try to pull my gaze from the man stacking a load of freshly chopped wood at his campsite. But it’s no use.
The handsome doctor—Gladys was only too happy to tell me she’d confirmed Doc wasn’t just a nickname—booked the same campsite every Monday through Wednesday for the rest of the season. I almost asked Clancy to move him somewhere else—anywhere else—but then I’d have to explain myself and what the hell would I say?
He’s too good looking?
He’s too quiet?
He’s too distracting?
That’s probably the closest to the truth.
He’s built. But with just a little bit of softness that says he’s not one of those guys who lives at the gym. His biceps though…I could watch him wield an axe all day long. And have for longer than I want to admit. I may have followed him into the woods last week—from a discrete distance—to see him chop wood.
He starts working on the fire. The man is precise. Old school. Small sticks and twigs arranged in a ring. Then leaves, pineneedles. He strikes a piece of flint with a folding knife. The first sparks catch in seconds, and he adds a couple of larger branches. Before long, he sinks into a camp chair and starts gutting a plump salmon. He must have caught a ride on one of the trawlers out of the marina earlier today. You can’t land a fish like that in the canoe.
“Nat?” Gladys calls and shuffles around the side of the house. “You here?”
I sink lower in the chair. Too late. She’s already climbing the steep flight of stairs with a large, lidded casserole dish tucked under her arm. “I made too much lasagna. Don’t want it to go to waste.”
Gladys always makes too much lasagna. And chicken soup. And potato salad. And brownies.
“I’ll get the drinks,” I say with a sigh. “And plates.”
“Good. Because this is my best batch in a year, and it’s still hot.” She nudges one of the deck chairs with her foot and slides the casserole dish onto the table. We do this dance once a week—at least—and somehow, I always end up with the leftovers. Convenient, since I hate cooking and try to do it as little as possible.
By the time I return with plates, silverware, and two bottles of beer, Gladys is leaning on the railing, staring down at the campsite below.
“He can see you,” I mutter. “Sit down.”
“I’m allowed to look.” She accepts the bottle of Hefeweizen and downs a healthy swig. “Andyou’reallowed to touch.”
“Oh my God. No. We arenothaving this conversation. Did you reschedule your visit with Bella?”
