Chapter Six

Gus was up and about the next morning by six. She told herself it was because the first load of supplies and volunteers were arriving at the jetty at seven sharp, but the truth was she’d barely slept a wink. She’d managed to push the deliciously disastrous kiss aside while she’d spent three hours with her laptop in her bedroom—the door firmly closed—inputting the figures and configuring a plan of attack for the census.

But once she’d gone to bed? She’d relived that kiss over and over and over.

It had been a spectacular kiss.

Sure, she’d had other spectacular kisses in her life. Rick had been an excellent kisser. But she’d made him wait a month for that first kiss, when she’d been sure of his intentions and there’d been familiarity and…safety.

Marshall’s kiss hadn’t felt safe. It had felt wild and thrilling and impulsive.

Wicked.

And she’d wanted to pull him down in the sand, claw his pants off, and climb right on. It’d pulsed through her like a mantra and that’s what had scared her, what had made her pull away and scramble to her feet.

How could she want to fuck evil Elmer so badly, so quickly? It might have been a while between drinks for her, but that was no reason to lose her mind over a guy who was a very bad idea.

She was a representative of the ABL, and he was essentially a client, even if he was being court ordered to partner with them. She was supposed to be a professional, not act like one of the rabbits on Hitchkin and want to hump him every time she saw him.

And neither her head nor her heart was in a good place to be considering some kind of liaison right now. Frankly, she didn’t know if either would ever be in a good place again. Rick’s betrayal had cut too deep, and it hurt.

It still hurt.

Tiptoeing into the kitchen to make coffee, she pushed Marshall from her thoughts. Today was a big day. There were things to do. But first, she needed some nectar of the gods to pep her up after her sleepless night, and she was grateful she’d decided to bring her portable pod machine with her rather than settle for a month of instant coffee.

She set Rambo down on the floor, letting him explore the kickboards. He’d been on the porch when she’d run from the beach last night, and she’d scooped him up and taken him inside, where he’d curled up beside her on the bed and gone to sleep.

Oh, to be a bunny.

Marshall wandered back into her head as she fixed her coffee and, before she even realized she was doing it, she was thinking about him again. About the awareness that had bubbled between them. Her arms broke out in goose bumps as she remembered the rough stroke of his finger pushing her strap into place, and the wild flutter that had kicked to life between her legs at the fireplace tingled again, warm and reminiscent.

Just one tiny touch that had zinged like lightning across her skin.

But that wasn’t all that had happened last night. Distractingly rough hands aside, there’d been some really intimate chats around that fire. About their childhoods and their jobs. Their parents.

It had been a surprise to realize that his father was also dead. She’d hadn’t asked him about it—no matter how much she’d wanted to. It wasn’t any of her business, and the less she knew about his circumstances, the better. But he’d said he’d started working construction at fifteen—had that been after his mother’s death?

Had he and Jeremy been alone since then?

But there must have been relatives to take them in? His grandfather, for one. Surely he’d stepped up?

Maybe that was why Marshall had described his relationship with his grandfather as complicated? Marshall must have been hurting to have lost his mom at that age, and maybe that hadn’t made for a smooth living situation.

Teenagers were never easy to raise, right? Throw in grief and hormones, and it could have been messy. They might have butted heads over career and school and discipline, leading to a fractious few years.

But she’d gotten the feeling it was more than that. Wanting to destroy his grandfather’s legacy here on Hitchkin?

That spoke of a much deeper injury.

And then there was his admission about having had several serious relationships. She didn’t know what constituted serious for him—maybe anything over a week was his benchmark?—but he’d gotten very solemn, and she hadn’t like how it had amplified the dark well of emptiness inside. She’d been…jealous that he’d been able to find connections when she struggled with that so badly.

Gus knew she didn’t need a man to be happy, but sitting with Marshall by the fire had churned up a kind of longing that squeezed painfully through her aching heart. Gus sighed as the pod machine stopped dripping out coffee, the earthy aroma tickling her nostrils. None of this mattered. Nor did the kiss.

A judge was making them work together for four weeks. A judge. She wasn’t going there with him. So, she needed to establish the boundaries of their working relationship today to avoid any confusion last night might have caused.

“Hey.”

Gus stiffened. Great. She’d been hoping she wouldn’t have to face him before the volunteers arrived. No such luck. Her pulse tap-danced at her temples as she took a steadying breath and turned. The breath died in her throat at the sight that greeted her. Marshall leaning against the doorjamb in nothing but low-riding boxers, his hair all wild and sleep-messy, Rambo clutched to his chest.

Holy frickin’ cow. She’d never seen anything sexier in her life.

A river of estrogen flooded her body, that warm tingle returning to the urgent flutter of last night. In fact, Gus was pretty sure her right ovary had just exploded.

Her throat worked to formulate words, but her vocal cords didn’t seem to be cooperating. Thankfully, he jumped into the silence, his eyebrows rising as he stared at the logo on her T-shirt. “Crazy bunny lady, huh?”

Gus’s nipples responded to his hot, steady gaze, something which he could hardly have missed. She suppressed the urge to run over and snatch Rambo off him just to make the estrogen stop.

Dear Lord, let it stop.

Turn around, Gus. Coffee. She turned around and reached blindly for her cup, curling her fingers automatically around the handle. It was hard to see anything with that Marshall-cuddling-a-bunny image seared onto her retinas.

“The first boat of volunteers is docking at seven,” she said, her voice sounding high and strange to her ears. Like she’d been injected with helium. And panic.

But at least she’d found it.

“Okay,” he said, stifling a yawn.

Forcing herself to turn again, she faced him, raising her chin. “Before they get here, we should probably talk about the ground rules. You know…going forward. To avoid… distractions.”

A slow smile spread over his face and slid straight between her legs. “Am I the distraction in this equation?”

Gus all but rolled her eyes. Please. The man was a walking, talking, bunny-cuddling diversion. The Humane Society should put him on a billboard. Her face must have been a picture, because he chuckled.

And there went her left ovary.

Who knew that near-naked man chuckling while holding a bunny could be a whole other level of sexy above just plain near-naked man holding a bunny?

“What happened last night can’t happen again,” she said, determined to keep on track.

He lifted an eyebrow in faux innocence. “The cookout?”

“Marshall,” she warned, flint in her voice.

“Augusta.”

Her proper name slid off his tongue like cream. She’d never been a fan, but the way he said it, all soft and low, made her think of speakeasies and night-shift deejays crooning into their mics.

“I mean it.”

“Ohhh.” He grinned. “The kiss.”

She did not return his grin.“Yes, Marshall. The kiss.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m positive. It can’t happen again.”

“It was a pretty amazing kiss.”

Gus wasn’t about to go into the merits of the kiss. They both knew it’d been hotter than a steam bath on the sun. She needed to dismiss it, to neutralize its power. “So?” She lifted a shoulder. “We have chemistry.”

“Yeah.” He nodded, his gaze suddenly more serious, more intent. “We do.”

“But guess what, Marshall? We’re adults. And we’re working together for a month, and then we’ll never see each other again. We don’t have to be slaves to biology. We just say no.”

He gave her an incredulous look that totally called bullshit. “Really?”

“Yes. Really. This isn’t the set of Love Island.”

A sexy half laugh slid from his lips. “Well, phew. That’s a relief.”

Gus pursed her lips. Right. Of course. Evil Elmer with his sexy rough hands was just like all the other guys who wanted to bag, brag, and move on, despite what he’d said last night. Up for some fun—hell yes. But love—no thank you.

“It’s not Sex Island, either.”

He regarded her for long moments, rhythmically stroking Rambo. Gus was pretty sure she could see a little trickle of rabbit drool pooling in the corner of his mouth. Clearly Rambo was also a fan of those big, thick, rough fingers.

“Are you going to tell the bunnies, or am I?”

“The bunnies are slaves to biology. They get a pass.”

“Lucky bunnies.”

“What’s the matter, Marshall?” she demanded. “Can’t keep your libido in check for four lousy weeks?”

His cocked eyebrow mocked her a little. “Can you?”

Considering it’d been six months and, prior to Rick, she’d regularly gone months without sex, Gus was confident on that score. “I have a black belt in libido control.”

“Well now,” he murmured. “That is a shame.”

“Is there a reason you’re obfuscating?”

He laughed. “Well clearly, to hear you say that word, for one.”

“Marshall.” Gus’s patience was hanging by a thread.

“Okay, okay, fine.” He held up his hand in a placatory gesture. “No kissing.”

“Or sex.”

His expression was one of exaggerated patience as she threw in the extra demand. “As long as we can still have sex with ourselves?”

Gus had not been expecting that question, and the image it put in her head took her by storm. She’d already seen what he had going on between his legs, seen the way he cupped himself. How much more exciting would it be to watch that big hand of his sliding up and down, pleasuring himself?

She shut her eyes tight, trying to erase the picture from her mind. When she opened them again, he was watching her, a broad grin stretched across his face. “You’re thinking about me doing it, aren’t you?”

Ignoring his question, she threw him a nonchalant look. “You can have as much sex with yourself as you like. Do we have a deal?”

He looked like he was going to obfuscate some more but then he sighed and said, “Fine. No kissing. No sex.”

Relief flowed like cool water through her veins, but, watching him stand there half-naked and holding a bunny, she knew she was going to need more than a verbal agreement. It seemed like such flimsy protection from this attraction that coursed between them. Words were cheap. She needed to hold him—and her—to a higher account.

“I want it in writing,” she blurted.

“What?”

“Our agreement.”

He gave an astonished laugh. “You can’t be serious.”

“Deadly.”

Gus wasn’t an idiot. She already knew any kind of proximity to Marshall would be dangerous to her resistance and that it probably wouldn’t take much on either side to push boundaries. If it was written down and signed, if it was all official, it’d be a tangible reminder—for both of them.

She strode to the table and plucked up one of the white paper napkins sitting in the middle. Before she could change her mind, she sat, picked up one of the three pens and scribbled hastily on the paper substitute. He put the rabbit down and also made a beeline for the table, stopping behind her and reading what she was writing out loud.

“We, Doctor Augusta North and Mr. Marshall Dyson, commit to no kissing slash sex during our four-week cohabitation on Hitchkin Island.”

Then, as Marshall moved around to pull up a chair, Gus signed her name on the bottom, dated it, and handed it over.

He took it and read it to himself this time as she waited on tenterhooks. When he’d been staring at it for what felt like five minutes, she pointedly pushed the pen across the table with her index finger. Looking up from the napkin, he said, “My brother told me never to sign anything without running it by him first.”

Gus reached into her pocket, pulled out her cell phone, and pushed it across the table, too. “I’ll wait.” She folded her arms and sat back.

Waving her phone away, his gaze met hers. “You think I’m going to call Jeremy and tell him that Goldilocks has gone all dictator on my ass and is insisting on some kind of signed sex boycott?”

“Don’t be so melodramatic.” Gus tapped her fingers on her arm.

“He’ll piss himself laughing. I’d never live it down.”

“So, don’t tell him. I won’t.”

He stared at the napkin again. “I don’t think this would stand up in a court of law.”

“It’s not an amendment to the freaking constitution, Marshall. It’s written on a napkin.” Gus indicated the pen. “Sign it.”

He didn’t pick it up. “What do I get?”

Gus frowned. “What do you mean?”

“If I agree to your terms and last the four weeks without kissing you, what do I get?”

She blinked. “You want a reward?”

“I prefer the word incentive.” His gaze dropped to her mouth and lingered for a beat or two before flicking upward again. “Kisses like last night don’t come along that often. It’s not going to be easy to forget.”

Gus wanted to be annoyed by Marshall seeking some kind of sexual incentive, but knowing he, too, hadn’t been able to forget the kiss they’d shared was freakily hot and eroding her degree of pissed off.

She swallowed as she yanked on the leash of her libido. “How about the pride and honor of knowing you gave your word and stuck to it?” she suggested sweetly.

He laughed all low and sexy, the kind of sexy that melted molecules. “How about,” he countered, leaning in a little, “at the end of four weeks, if I’ve stuck to the contract, I get to kiss you again?”

Gus’s middle lurched at the silky proposition that sounded more like a reward than an incentive. She sat back in her chair. “Or we shake hands on a job well done and move on with our lives?”

He chuckled. “I’m going to go out on a limb here and wager you’re going to want that kiss as much as I do by the end of four weeks.”

“Oh really?” Gus folded her arms.

“Really.”

His gaze dropped to her mouth again, and Gus felt hot all over. “You’re pretty damn conceited, aren’t you?”

He shrugged like he knew it and didn’t give one fuck. “You said it yourself, we have chemistry.” He sat back in his chair. “It’s just a kiss, Gus.”

Just a kiss. Gus suppressed a snort. There was nothing just about last night’s kiss. But if an incentive helped seal the deal… “On the cheek?”

He shook his head very slowly and deliberately, his deep-blue eyes meeting hers. “On the mouth.” A small smile played across his lips. “They’re my terms.”

Gus’s throat went dry as two-day toast as her traitorous body reveled in the prospect. Damn it. She should have known he wouldn’t be a pushover. But it wasn’t like any of this was orthodox, and she was, essentially, asking him to make a gentleman’s agreement, albeit a written one. She supposed it was only fair to give him something, too.

And it was four weeks away.

“Fine.” She could endure one kiss. She picked up the pen and thrust it in his direction. “One kiss.”

He grinned big, so big she actually rolled her eyes at him. “What do you want?”

Gus was still a little dizzy from that grin to process information. She frowned. “Want?”

“If you don’t break down and kiss me,” he explained with a smile. “What incentive do you want?”

She snorted. He was crazy if he thought she couldn’t keep herself in check. She wasn’t interested in fooling around with him or anyone else. “I won’t break down.” She reached forward and slapped the pen against his chest. “Sign it.”

Still smiling, he took the pen and signed on the line she’d drawn. Gus had no idea if it was his signature or not—it was totally illegible.

“That better not be Mickey Mouse.”

He grinned. “It’s Elmer Fudd, of course.”

Pushing his chair back, he swaggered nonchalantly to the fridge, scooping Rambo up on the way. Gus inspected the signed pledge. She felt better having it, even if it wouldn’t stand up in a court of law. If Marshall had to be here, then she wanted him on a leash.

And her on one as well. For four weeks anyway. After that…

Gus glanced at Marshall as he grabbed the milk from the fridge. He looked deceptively harmless holding a bunny, but hell if she hadn’t just made a deal with the Devil.

…

Two hours later, Marshall’s head was spinning after he’d helped unload three boats full of provisions for Hitchkin. Everything from caging to basic medical supplies to non-perishable food.

And hay. Lots of hay.

There was human cargo, too. Two dozen volunteers, sixteen women and eight men, all wearing khaki-colored T-shirts with a white rabbit silhouette on the front and Bunnyguard emblazoned across the back in white block print. They’d arrived with backpacks and an abundance of enthusiasm, and now that everything had been unloaded, they were busy picking out their beach spots and pitching their tents.

Aside from the obvious aesthetic appeal, the beaches were the only place for the tents other than the clearing around the cabin. The wooded areas—most of the island—were too dense to set up a tent between trunks. And, in this heat, the beach was a lot cooler.

Gus had asked the volunteers to use the other side of the island, away from the jetty, to erect their tents. She thought this would give everyone privacy from any boat traffic between the island and the mainland and preempt any potential complaints about the visual pollution created by two dozen tents and the two unsightly Port-a-Potties that had also been delivered.

She’d thought of everything, and the Bunnyguards were happy to comply.

By nine thirty, everyone was gathered on the porch for their first information session. Most stood. Some sat on the Adirondack chairs, or the railings or on the floorboards, with their backs to the outside wall of the cabin.

Gus seemed to know the majority of the volunteers, greeting them by name and laughing and joking with them. Hell, even he recognized some faces from court. But only a few of them seemed to know one another, although Marshall suspected it wouldn’t take long for them all to become one big happy family, given the level of chatter and camaraderie already on display.

He was impressed by their dedication and excitement for the job ahead.

Eventually Gus called the gathering together. “Thanks so much for volunteering your time,” she said. “As you know, The American Bunny League—”

Marshall suppressed a smile. Still funny.

“—isn’t government funded, and it couldn’t run without the help of volunteers and the time you give so generously to the organization. So, thank you.”

There were cheers and whoops and back-slapping before people quieted again.

“For those who haven’t met him yet, this is Marshall Dyson.” Marshall was standing beside her and stuck out like a sore thumb, but she pointed anyway. “He owns Hitchkin Island, and it’s his company that is going to develop it after we’ve re-homed all the rabbits.”

Two dozen sets of eyes swiveled to Marshall. Those from court were a little frosty, but mostly the gazes were curious. Probably wondering why he was here at all.

Yeah well, they could talk to the judge about that.

There was nothing easy about being here, and Gus running from their kiss last night had pretty much summed up every experience he’d ever had on this godforsaken island—disappointing. And if he hadn’t been court-ordered, Marshall would be far, far away now.

So here he was, with two hundred rabbits, the least agreeable but most compelling woman he’d ever met, and a signed napkin that might as well have been a fucking virginity pledge. But at least he had that day four weeks from now to look forward to.

He was going to be thinking about that a lot.

“For those of you who don’t know, Marshall will be joining us these four weeks, helping with the census as well as the rescue and re-homing process. He doesn’t know a bunny’s ass from its elbow, so no Bunnyguard hazing, okay?”

Everyone laughed, including Marshall. He loved that Goldilocks had such a sense of humor.

“Okay.” Gus reached behind her to a box that contained a stack of papers, snatching it up. “I have an information pack for each of you, including maps of the island and the grid we’ll be working off of tonight.”

Delving into the box, she grabbed a pile. Marshall stepped in and relieved her of them. “I’ll distribute them. You keep talking.”

She blinked at him but handed over the box, and Marshall delivered them to the volunteers. Several women gave him very big smiles. The kind of smile he understood. That said, why don’t you come by my tent sometime? He gave them all a quick, neutral, thank-you-but-no-thank-you smile before continuing the distribution.

“I want you to study the maps and the notes I’ve made about the topography and the location of nests I’ve found so far, and then find someone to buddy up with tonight. We’ll start the census at twilight, which is at eight, and hopefully be done by dawn, around five.”

Marshall’s hand faltered mid-handover of a pack to a guy with a beard and a man-bun who looked in his early twenties. He hadn’t realized they’d be doing the census at night.

The hipster took the pack and smiled his thanks.

“Our first priority today is to get all the stores sorted and set up the bunny farm”—there was gentle laughter, and Gus smiled at her joke—“for when the rescue process begins. It will be located at both sides of the tree line.” She pointed to the edges of the clearing where the bales of hay had been stacked earlier. “So, all hands on deck for that, please.”

There were murmurs and nods of assent. “I’m going to be around all day. If you have any questions, come and ask, but I suggest you all try and get some shut-eye this afternoon. It’s going to be a long night.”