Page 7 of River & Rue

Rue St. James.

My little sister’s best friend.

“River.”

She spits my name like it’s poison. I drink her animosity like I’m parched for it, then I do something I haven’t in weeks.

I laugh.

Her glare intensifies.

“You guys know each other?” Dan’s excited tone confirms he’s incapable of reading a room, but Claudia’s good cheer wanes.

“We do indeed,” I confirm.

As I stroll toward Rue, she stiffens, wariness cracking the ice in her eyes. She’s a tall woman, but I don’t stop until she’s forced to look up to maintain eye contact.

My smile widens.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t my favorite little Ruin.”

4

rue

​. . .​

pheromonal food chain

I don’t hate men—frankly, they haven’t shown me they deserve that level of emotional investment—but if I could take a pill that would turn off my attraction to them?

Sign me up.

I’d be just as eager to take one tailored to a single man. Specifically, the one walking five steps ahead of me, leading me down a dirt path like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Like his presence isn’t rapidly turning my dream into a nightmare.

Like there was nothing weird at all about him throwing a heavy, bare arm over my shoulders and telling Claudia we’re practically family. That he’d love to show me to my cabin—which is apparently right beside his.

Glaring at his messy, offensively thick man bun, I pretend my eyes are lasers capable of exploding his head like a ripe melon.

Kaboom. Bye bye, man bun.

“Why is there a giant wet spot on your shirt?”

He doesn’t look back as he asks, and I’m almost grateful his voice has reverted to a familiar tone: detached and cool.

Since there’s no reality in which I’d tell him about the catastrophic experience I endured in the Lodge’s bathroom upon my arrival, I say blandly, “Because when I found out you were here, I threw up on myself.”

He snorts, throwing me a brief glance over his shoulder. I look away instead of making eye contact, a decision I regret when I catch the curl of a smug smile as he turns back around.

“Ah. I thought you’d lost another battle with food.”

I stop mid-stride. “That was one time, over eight years ago!”

He keeps walking, head high and shoulders squared, each step imbued with the innate grace of a man who knows he’s at the top of the pheromonal food chain. I definitely don’t spend a few seconds mesmerized by the muscles playing beneath the bronzed skin of his back. Equally unimpressive are his tight, rhythmically flexing glutes beneath black swim shorts, long as fuck legs, and perfectly carved calves.

Yawn. So boring.

A low chuckle floats back to me. “Best Thanksgiving ever. Like having a gremlin at the dinner table.”