“Rowan? Thank god you picked up. Are you okay? I’ve been so worried. Marnie wouldn’t tell me where you are, but from your Instagram it looks like you’rehiking?”
He sounds concerned. As if he’s genuinely worried about me.
But he doesn’t have any right to be. Not after what he’s done.
I want to shout at him. Give him a piece of my mind and let him know exactly how stupid, how embarrassed, how pathetic I felt walking in on him yesterday. We’ve only been dating for a year, but I moved in with him, for fuck’s sake. I didn’t even want to. I like my space, like my things the way I arrange them, like having Marnie over for girl’s nights, like that my local barista knows my order, like the way the light falls on my bed in the morning. I gave all of that up, for him.
And less than a month later he’s cheating on me?
My eyes are hot with unshed tears. My nose clogs, and with my teeth still glued together, what comes out of my mouth is closer to Darth Vader’s death rattle than comprehensible words.
“Rowan? Are you there?”
Another wheezing breath.
I can’t do it. I hang up, the taste of almonds heavy on my tongue.
I let out a low, slow groan.
“Fuck. Fuckity-fuck-fuck-fuck,” I curse. “FUCK.”
What’s wrong with me? The opportunity was right there. So why didn’t I give him a piece of my mind?
“Do you mind? You’re scaring the wildlife away with that caterwauling.”
An extremely Scottish-sounding, extremely cross-looking man is sitting on a fallen log on the top of a knoll not a metre away. And he’s glaring at me with a hatred as strong as if I’d walked up to him, stolen the coffee from his hands and thrown it in his face.
He’s also the hottest man I’ve ever seen in my life.
His square jaw is covered in a rough scratching of two-day old stubble. His dark brown hair is short at the back and sides, tousled on top, and he’s dressed in unfussy hiking clothes: steel-grey cargo trousers with an overabundance of pockets and a tight, black T-shirt that shows off every inch of his wide shoulders. A tattoo snakes out of one sleeve, a collection of small birds darting among what look like leaves wending over his defined bicep and thick, hairy forearm.
He looks rugged, outdoorsy. Like he could bear me away in his burly arms and show me the finer meanings of wood.
When I meet his gaze, his eyes are a deep acorn brown that makes me think of melted chocolate and falling leaves in autumn. I bet he has the kind of callouses that catch on sensitive skin. I bet he knows how to ask for what he wants, and take it like he means it.
I bet—
Woah, girl.
“Who died and made you king of this clearing?”
The words slip out before I can stop them, my anger at Ethan deflecting straight onto the man in front of me.
“Oh, I think I’ve a little more right to it than you.” He takes me in slowly, raising an eyebrow when he reaches my orange shorts. “First time on the trail, is it?”
“No. I go hiking all the time. It’s my favourite hobby. Obviously.”
I’m not usually a confrontational person. If someone asked me to write a list of things I hate, confrontation would be right there at the top, waging war with smarmy yoga mums wearing Lululemon leggings and people who claim they have better things to do than watch TV.
But there’s something about the lumberjacks’ judgemental stare that has my spine stiffening, lending me a sass I don’t normally possess.
“I thinkyou’vespent a bit too much time on the trail though,” I add.
“And why is that?”
“You seem to have misplaced your manners out here. Maybe instead of shouting at innocent women you could try looking for them and leave me alone.”
“Youbarged intomyclearing.” His hands tighten around his mug as if he wants to throw it at me.
