Must. Fill. The silence.
“I saw something in these woods last night,” I say.
“It’s not safe to be in the forest alone,” he says at the same time.
I take a breath and remind myself not to get snippy with him. He’s trying to help. He’s doing his job, but it’s a sure bet that I know these woods better than he does. He doesn’t need to worry about me. I turn, blinking my eyes open. “I’ve been hiking out here since I was three—” My eyes go wide when I realize I’m face to chest with him. “Geez,” I mutter.
Adam straightens, hurrying to tug a gray T-shirt over his head and down his torso.
I am transfixed. I’ve never seen abs do that. It’s not like they’re chiseled or anything. He doesn’t have a six-pack or the look of someone who weighs his food portions. But he’s so tan and solid and ... Well, I’ve never considered myself a prude, but Adam needs to keep those things covered up. They’re indecent. No woman should be allowed to see those, especially up close.
Now he’s smoothing his hands down his shirt, and I’m getting annoyed. How is he sexier with the shirton? It makes no sense. Then he drags his hand through his wavy brown hair, and I want to scream. What were we even talking about?
“What did you see last night?” His dark brows furrow, and his eyes are intense, staring down at me.
Okay.
Driving past Shirtless Adam on the highway at fifty miles per hour is one thing. It’s like getting a whiff of chocolate chip cookies in the oven. Sitting next to him with those intense eyes and that enveloping cedarwood scent? With that T-shirt? It’s like diving into a pool of warm, melted chocolate, and I am drowning in it.
That’s what his eyes remind me of. Dark chocolate. I lick my lips, staring at his eyes.
“Are you good?” He frowns. “Should I call someone, or—”
I cough. What is wrong with me? I amnotgood. I need August to order another CT scan. I’ve never blatantly ogled a man like this before. I need to change the subject—not that Adam has any idea that he’s been the subject.
I groan. “I saw a sasquatch,” I blurt, then immediately bite my lip. Of all the things to say ...
He tilts his head to the side, taking me in. “What exactly did you see?” He’s not instantly shutting me down, which I appreciate.
I grin. “I’ll show you.” I swipe the screen on my phone, dying to see my photos for the first time. I’m grateful this thing has some battery left, but it’s at seven percent. We need to do this quickly. I find my photo app and tap.
Adam leans in.
I swallow. The shaky, low-resolution photos aren’t great, but they’re good enough. I want to laugh when I notice that they’re eerily similar to famous still shots of Bigfoot from the Patterson-Gimlin film—the photo everyone thinks of when they picture a sasquatch. He’s mid-stride, his head turned toward the camera as though he’s spotted it. I hold my free hand over my mouth, covering a laugh. The similarity to the iconic sasquatch shot is actually hilarious. Maybe this is Bigfoot's go-to pose? They know their angles.
And my brothers are going to die over this. They might even come home. There’s a tiny pang in my chest at the thought. I’m itching to find more to show them. There have to be tracks around here—some other evidence.
“Um ...” Adam shifts closer. “This was last night?”
“Uh-huh.” My brain melts in the warmth radiating from his arm. I'm so thirsty. I can’t believe I forgot to bring my water bottle.
He frowns at the screen. “Did you get anything else?”
“Uh-huh,” I repeat, swiping to the video and pressing play numbly. He smells too good for a guy who spends all of his time in nature.
Then Adam reaches over, placing his hand on the back of mine to steady the phone and move it closer.
I gulp.
His hand is big and calloused. How can I focus on anything else?
The only thing that could possibly divide my attention is the evidence playing on my screen. This video is dim, and theonly audio is my heavy breathing and fumbling with the phone. Lovely.
The figure is unmistakable, though. It is to me, anyway. He’s just a little far away, it’s dim, and it’s only four seconds of footage. I let it play another time, and Adam doesn’t say anything. He drops his hand, running it down the leg of his jeans nervously, like my insanity might be contagious.
He coughs. “Well—”
“The thing is,” I cut in. “It’s still out here. I know what I saw. My friends and I have a bet going, actually. I’m going to find more evidence of sasquatch before they—” I snap my mouth shut, shifting on the rock.Oh, why does my mouth run when I’m uncomfortable?
