Page 58 of River Wild

Carrie

I don’t expect to see River today. I can usually go days or weeks without seeing my neighbor. And, especially after last night’s events, I figure it might be months before I see him next.

I still can’t believe I broke into his house, thinking he was being attacked or something, and acted like a complete tool and embarrassed the heck out of myself and cut my toe open on his table, all with that garden fricking fork in my hand. Total doofus.

And I’m definitely not thinking about the fact that I saw him naked.

Very naked.

Nope, definitely not thinking about that right now.

Especially not when he’s walking straight toward me because that would be creepy and out of the ordinary. Creepy, me thinking of him naked. Out of the ordinary, him coming over to speak to me.

Buddy and I pause on the sidewalk outside our house.

River comes to a stop in front of me. He’s wearing a flannel shirt and jeans. The same boots on his feet as he had on last night. A beanie on his head, covering that thick hair of his.

It’s cooler today—thankfully. I’m wearing a long, chunky dark green sweater over black leggings with some walking boots I picked up the other day on discount, and a black-and-white-checkered scarf is knotted around my neck, my hair down and doing its own thing.

“Red,” he says in that low, dark voice of his.

“River.” I smile at him.

He doesn’t smile back. Or say anything else.

Just stands there, staring at me from beneath those lowered brows in that dark, brooding way of his. But I notice there’s something else in his expression. I can see it in the set of his jaw and the tightness around his eyes. It looks like discomfort.

He’s uncomfortable.

I didn’t know he could feel the emotion.

This is a guy who had no problem standing stark naked in front of me last night. Or saying whatever is in his head. So, I have to wonder what has him feeling uncomfortable.

Maybe it’s because he thanked you last night, a voice in my head says.

It could be that. I can’t imagine River is used to thanking anyone for anything.

But he doesn’t need to feel uncomfortable about that.

I want to ask him if that is it. Reassure him that he doesn’t have to feel uncomfortable about it. But I’m not as straightforward as he is.

So, instead, I opt to ask what he wants—in a non-rude way, of course—when I notice my gardening fork in his hand.

“Is that mine?” I gesture to it.

He looks down at my gardening fork in his hand, like just remembering it’s there. “Oh. Yeah.” He clears his throat. “I found it on my living room floor. Thought you might need it. You know, for the next time you decide to do another breaking and entering.”

“Funny.” I take the gardening fork from him. “And I don’t plan on doing any breaking and entering ever again.”

“That so?”

“Yep.”

“Shame. The highlight of my week was seeing those pajamas of yours.”

For some reason, his words make me flush.

Maybe it’s because you’re thinking about the fact that, when you saw him, he wasn’t wearing any pajamas.