Chapter Nineteen

Gus was still awake two hours later when the sound of footsteps alerted her to Marshall climbing the stairs. They could belong to anybody, but after lying in bed and listening to his feet on the floorboards far too often, she knew without a shadow of doubt they belonged to Marshall.

The music had stopped a few minutes ago, and the voices and laughter that had drifted through her window from the direction of the beach had started to recede as the Bunnyguards obviously called it a night.

The door squeaked open then clicked shut. More footsteps padded across the kitchen into the living room. They stopped and Gus heard deep indistinct mumblings—was he talking to Thumper?—before his feet padded closer and closer to her door.

They stopped again and Gus swore she could hear Marshall breathing on the other side as she quickly pulled up the sheet. Rambo’s head lifted and turned toward the door. She held her breath and waited, her heart pounding in the darkness.

Would he knock? Would he barge in like he’d done twice before already?

Or would he leave it alone? And why the hell did she not know which option she wanted him to take?

She was mad at him right now over the coded language he’d used around the bonfire, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t pull back the sheet and invite him to stay, should he end up in her room. Because the pull of Marshall wasn’t getting any less and there was only so much temptation one woman could take.

A quiet knock came after a beat or two, and her pulse leapt, every muscle in her body contracting in anticipation. A whispered, “Gus?” followed soon after.

She almost invited him in. Even opened her mouth to form the words but shut it with a click as her brain took over from her libido.

She hated her brain sometimes.

It knew that fucking Marshall wasn’t going to cure this craving. It was only going to stoke it. Because whatever the hell was happening was deeper than physical attraction, and she was always going to want more—maybe forever—from a guy who had cut and run three times already.

Cracking the seal, while physically gratifying, would be monumentally stupid. And she didn’t do stupid.

It seemed like an age until his footsteps retreated, and it wasn’t until she heard the squeak of the couch springs that the tension in her muscles started to ease.

Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough.

Of course, tomorrow took its sweet time arriving. It felt like she witnessed every hour click over as she tried to doze and wait for the morning. At six a.m., with probably less than two fitful hours of sleep under her belt, Gus abandoned all pretense. She rose, showered, and packed, which took less than fifteen minutes.

Opening the bedside drawer, she reached in and pulled out the napkin contract, staring at it for long moments. She couldn’t believe she’d come up with the ridiculous idea.

Or how they’d both so flagrantly flaunted it.

The fortune had been right in that regard—it certainly wasn’t worth the paper it was written on. Shaking her head, Gus shoved it in her pocket.

Cracking open the door, she prayed like hell Marshall was still asleep. No such luck. The aroma of coffee assailed her as she stepped out of her room, quickly shutting the door behind her to confine Rambo until they were ready to leave in a couple of hours. She’d pick up him and Thumper and her backpack last thing.

Torn between her desperate desire for coffee and her less welcome desire for the man who had made it, Gus squared her shoulders and prepared to face Marshall one last morning.

She stopped briefly by Thumper’s cage. Somebody had put in some fresh hay—no medals for guessing who.

“Ready for your trip, big guy?” she crooned, reaching in to scratch the bunny’s fur.

She and Marshall had agreed that Thumper would go with her to Denver first, have his little operation and then see if a family might fall in love with his chunkiness. Marshall was Thumper’s plan B.

When she could delay no further, she strode into the kitchen. Marshall was lounging against the sink, coffee mug in hand. His hair looked like he’d shoved it into place with a rake of his hand, and his scruffy stubble did strange things to her knees. He was lean and broad and long-legged, wearing his low-riding tartan boxers like a goddamn kilt and the tight, stretchy fit of his T-shirt like a glove.

The man wore clothes well. Almost as well as he wore naked.

As if he could read her thoughts, he smiled a slow smile. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” she said, ignoring the lazy way his gaze ran over her shorts and T-shirt.

She’d gone for a plain navy T-shirt this morning—no funny bunny sayings—not wanting to give Marshall any reason to stare at her chest. Although, apparently, he didn’t need one.

“I’m sorry about last night,” he said.

For a moment, Gus wasn’t sure if he meant his bonfire innuendo or the knock on her door, so she covered the moment by crossing to the coffee machine. It brought her a little too close to him for comfort—although probably being in the same state would be a little too close. She stared out the window to distract herself from the flatness of his abs in her peripheral vision.

“I was out of line at the fire. I shouldn’t have teased you like that.”

Teasing? Was that what he called it?

But Gus didn’t want to get into a conversation about it, for fear of where it might lead. Rehashing what happened wasn’t going to do either of them any good. She shoved the mug under the dispenser and watched as a stream of liquid gold filled the cup. “It’s fine.”

Maybe if she pretended what had happened between them was no big deal, he’d believe it, too?

Maybe she’d believe it?

Gus was excruciatingly aware of his gaze on her profile as she made a production of pouring milk. Was he going to leave it alone or press for more?

“I can’t help it,” he said. “My tongue got carried away. It takes its ambassador duties seriously.”

Gus rolled her eyes, flicking a quick sideways look at him before fixing her gaze out the window. “It’s a fortune cookie, Marshall. Don’t believe everything you read.”

“Oh I don’t know, I think both of ours were very accurate.”

Gus didn’t bother with a reply. She was not going to dignify fortune cookie wisdom with a comment.

“The boats arrive at eight?”

Relieved he’d changed the subject, Gus shoved her teaspoon into the sugar bowl. “They do,” she confirmed as she tipped two teaspoons into her mug and stirred. She’d deliberately scheduled it early so she could be off the island before ten. “All the equipment will go on the first boat, bunnies and people on the second.”

Except Marshall. He was staying for a few more days to greet and manage his crew arriving tomorrow.

“It’ll probably take us an hour or so to load everything.” She could already hear activity outside at the bunny farm.

He nodded. “I’ll give you guys a hand.”

“Thank you.”

Gus hadn’t thought for a second he wouldn’t. He’d always been there to pitch in with his brawn when required. She picked the mug up and sipped, watching the tree line outside the window.

“Ray mentioned you’re going to be staying in Denver for a few days, is that right?”

Gee…thanks, Ray.

Gus tensed a little, sipping her coffee to buy some time. “Yes.” But it wasn’t a social visit; it was work, and she didn’t want him to get any ideas. She lived in Chicago.

She loved living in Chicago.

Turning her head, she said, “Thanks to Hitchkin, HQ is a little overwhelmed with bunnies to neuter.”

He chuckled. “I feel like you’re telling me that to turn me off. But you know I find that kinda sexy, right?”

Gus shook her head, amused despite her determination to not let him wiggle under her skin anymore. “I can’t decide if that makes you a weirdo or a deviant.”

“Doc, doc, doc,” he tutted, clutching his heart. “Getting off on a chick who can surgically remove balls? I think that makes me a feminist.”

She laughed. It spluttered out of her in a surprised kind of flourish. He laughed, too, his low, rich chuckle tickling like a hot mouth brushing behind her ear. The man’s sense of humor was arrestingly charming.

There’d never be a dull moment with Marshall.

“I was thinking—”

“Hey, Gus?” A voice from outside cut Marshall off. “You free to look at something?”

She’d never been more relieved to hear her name—ever—and the look he gave her told her he was well aware. “Coming,” she called, breaking eye contact to take a quick sip of her coffee. “I gotta go,” she said, not looking at him, trying not to think about whatever it was Marshall had been thinking.

“Sure.”

After taking another sip, she placed her mug on the counter and turned away, her heart beat picking up tempo as her feet took her closer to the door.

“Gus?”

It wasn’t very loud, and she kept going, pretending she hadn’t heard him, but when he said, “Augusta,” lower again but steely and compelling, her steps automatically faltered. She didn’t turn, just stood there, but it didn’t seem to matter.

“We’re not done here.”

Gus’s insides melted a little at the absolute possession in his tone. It was the kind of voice she imagined he used on a construction site. His boss voice.

And why the hell that got her all kinds of excited she didn’t want to explore. “I know,” she said and kept on going.

By nine, the first boat had departed and all that was left to load was Thumper. Her backpack and Rambo were already on board, as were the Bunnyguards who’d said their goodbyes to Marshall just before he’d disappeared inside the cabin to take a business call.

“He’s pretty heavy. I can get him,” Ray offered from the boat. Gus eyed the roofline of the cabin that had been her home this past month with slight trepidation.

“No, it’s fine,” she dismissed. She was used to hauling heavy cages around. “I haven’t said goodbye to Marshall yet, so I’ll grab him.” Time for her big girl panties. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

With legs that felt as substantial as two pieces of string, she hurried along the path and on to the cabin, an unfamiliar voice quite loud as she climbed the four steps to the porch. Marshall was sitting at the table as she walked through the door, his cell on speaker as he jotted stuff down.

Their eyes locked.

“Gotta go,” Marshall said, interrupting the other man and pressing the end button.

The voice cut off midsentence, and Gus was hyperaware of Marshall’s gaze as she crossed to the living room and Thumper’s cage. “You ready for your big trip, my main man?”

Ignoring her shaking hands, Gus picked up the cage and, crossing in front of Marshall again, set it down by the door. Taking a breath, she turned back to face him. He’d changed into khaki shorts and a T-shirt, and his grimy work boots were firmly planted on the ground. He was sitting in that casually spread-eagle way men had—so blatantly male.

His arms were folded and his gaze was brooding as he looked at her expectantly.

“Well that’s it,” she said, determined not to betray the mad skip of her pulse. “Everything’s packed up, no rubbish has been left behind, and the first lot of decent rain will take care of the grid squares. The port-o-potty people will be here after lunch to take one of the units. They’re leaving the other for your construction crew, as discussed. If you find any damage to the island after we leave, don’t hesitate to contact the ABL, who will—”

“Augusta.” His interruption wasn’t very loud or insistent, but it stopped her yammering dead. “I don’t give a flying fuck about the state of the island. It’s about to become a construction zone.”

He stood then, and she swallowed, taking a step back. The man just took up too much space. “Yes, I know, but that’s really not the point. The ABL prides itself on leaving no footprint, so it’s important to contact head office if you’re unhappy with anything.”

He prowled closer and closer, not talking, just walking, his gaze intent on her mouth. With every step in her direction, Gus took one backward until her ass bumped into the wall adjacent to the door.

He’d halted two inches in front of her.

“Marshall.”

Gus hoped it didn’t sound like the squeak it felt like coming from her throat as a tidal wave of clean male sweat and pheromones rolled off his chest, making her hotter than a pepper sprout.

Her face was hot and her breath was hot and her breasts were hot. And good God almighty, her inner thighs were burning up.

She cleared her throat. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going to kiss you. As per our agreement.”

A pulse between Gus’s legs flared to life, increasing the heat quotient by about a thousand as he lowered his mouth, inch by glorious inch. She swallowed, wanting the kiss as much as he did but knowing if she was going to leave here and never look back, not kissing him would make it so much easier. And if he kissed her now, she wasn’t sure she’d want him to stop.

Whatever the hell it was they had here in this Hitchkin bubble belonged here. It wasn’t for her real life.

“About that.”

His lips stopped an inch from her mouth. “No about that,” he said, his voice a low growl. “I kept my end of the deal, Augusta. The contract expires today, and I’m collecting on our agreement.”

That growl made things a thousand percent hotter. She felt like one of those poor goddamn marshmallows they’d endlessly toasted on sticks.

“Did you, though? Did I? I don’t think either of us kept our end of the deal, not the way it was meant in the contract, which should make our agreement null and void.”

Gus winced internally at the haughty creeping into her voice. It sounded like she’d been awake all night swatting up on legal terms.

He pulled back slowly, his face clearly unamused by her trying to throw some last-minute legal Hail Mary. “Give me the contract.”

Breathing slightly easier, Gus fished inside the confines of her pocket. The napkin was crushed and crinkled, but she was exceedingly grateful she’d decided to put it there earlier. At least arguing the merits of the contract gave them something else to do besides making out like the world was about to end.

He plucked it out of her hand, locked his gaze with hers, and then ripped it in half.

Gus gasped. “What the fuck, Marshall?”

He didn’t respond, just kept ripping it in half and in half and in half again until it was tiny pieces of confetti, which he then tossed in the air. She watched them flutter to the ground, her brain not quite comprehending what had happened.

“Oops.”

“Oops?” she spluttered, glaring at him. “That’s all you have to say for yourself?”

He shrugged and said, “Oops,” again.

Gus looked at the napkin confetti at her feet then back up at Marshall, a blood vessel in her temple drumming a wild beat. They couldn’t argue the merits now. “You…can’t do that.”

“I just did. You want to take me to court again?”

“You destroyed my proof.”

He grinned. “I know, right? How am I ever going to live with myself?”

Gus blinked, outrage adding to the heat in her system, forming a potent kind of mix. He was so fucking…cocky. It’d serve him right if she did take him to court. “You are…” She searched around for a worthy adjective. “Infuriating.” But his grin only got bigger. The blood vessel inched closer to rupture. “I…really don’t like you very much, Marshall Dyson,” she said, her chest rising and falling, her pulse tripping.

His grin got bigger. Asshole.

“Oh, Goldilocks.” He shook his head. “I think we both know that’s a barefaced lie.” And then he was crowding her back against the wall, her heart rate rocketing as his thigh slid between hers, his hips shifted against hers, his chest pressed to hers, his hands sunk into her hair. His mouth descended, getting closer and closer, blocking everything out but the warmth of his breath and the scent of coffee and toothpaste.

His lips touched down, and it was all over red rover—the pretense and the yearning and four weeks of ignoring the hard insistent edge of their attraction. There was no breaking away or telling him he shouldn’t be doing this. There were no words, just their lips and their hands and their bottled-up drives exploding around them.

It wasn’t a Disney movie kind of kiss. It was messy and dirty and greedy. Mouths and teeth and tongue-mashing together until Gus couldn’t breathe with it, couldn’t think. Her lungs grappled for air, her heart galloped so hard and fast she felt it beating everywhere, her legs and arms shook with need.

She sunk a hand into his hair, moaning for more, trying to get closer, pulling at his hip, trying to climb inside his skin.

His arousal was evident, wedged between them, and she pressed closer still, needing to feel the steel of it, the urgency of it, as his tongue dipped and played and stroked against hers so head-spinningly good.

It really was his ambassador.

“Jesus…fuck,” he panted against her mouth as he came up for air. “I want you.”

Yep. Her sentiments exactly. Right here, right now, against this wall. Boat load of people waiting, or not.

His lips branded a path down her throat, and she gasped as his teeth grazed her skin. “Go on a date with me,” he murmured, his breath hot on her neck, his lips brushing against the thick bound of her carotid.

Gus shut her eyes, her lungs desperately trying to drag air in and push it out as she clawed herself out of a morass of pleasure. “No.” Fucking her against the wall was one thing, but letting him seduce her into something more was entirely different.

Her hands slid to his chest to push him away, but it was hot and hard beneath her palm, and his tongue lapped at her pulse like a vampire readying himself to bite. She panted hard, fighting the urge to brazenly angle her head for more and losing, her fingers curling into his shirt, dragging him closer.

“Why not?” he demanded, taking shameless advantage, putting the ambassador to good use, swiping his tongue up, up, up.

Because. Because why? Jesus…Gus couldn’t think worth a damn.

“Why not, Augusta?”

Her name was like honey on his tongue, and the low, urgent register of his voice rumbled into her ear via the bony prominence behind. Goose bumps flushed down her neck, prickled along her scalp, and fanned to the tips of her nipples. Fireworks sizzled behind Gus’s eyes.

“Because…I live in Chicago and you live in Denver.” It wasn’t the reason, but even Marshall had to admit a thousand miles made dating problematic.

“I mean this week,” he said, sucking her earlobe into his mouth, his breath fanning over her cheek. “While you’re in town.”

Gus’s eyes practically rolled back in her head as she desperately tried to hold on to her position. Couldn’t he just shut up and keep kissing her already? “No.”

“Why?”

“Because,” she repeated. “I live in Chicago and you live in Denver.”

She might not be in her right mind at the moment, but she was aware enough to know getting into a long-distance thing was difficult enough in an established relationship. This was…she didn’t know what this was, but she did know she’d been too hurt to risk her heart again, especially with a guy who had zero proven follow-through.

She wasn’t going to set herself up for failure again. Even if he did kiss like he’d written the Kama Sutra.

“That’s just geography,” he said, his voice a husky rumble.

And then his mouth was on hers again and he was groaning against her lips, his fingers digging into her scalp, his head angling side to side to side, deeper and harder and wetter, quick and drugging, filling her senses up with the essence of him until she didn’t know where he ended and she began.

His tongue was relentless, dipping and sucking, licking and tasting until every stroke felt like it was stimulating her clitoris. She was wet and moaning and mindless and possibly—embarrassingly—about to climax from just one kiss on the mouth.

Maybe he had written the Kama Sutra.

But her cell phone had other ideas. Its jarring ringtone ripped her out of the bliss with all the subtlety of a yank to her hair. She tore her mouth from his, her clitoris protesting the sudden halt in proceedings.

“Let it ring,” he urged.

But Gus grabbed it for the lifeline it was, slipping out from between Marshall and the wall and grabbing her phone from her pocket. Walking into the living room, to put as much space her and Mr. Kama Sutra as possible, she kept her back to him as she answered.

“Hello?” She hoped like hell she didn’t sound as breathless as she felt.

“Sorry to interrupt.” Ray’s cheerful voice came down the line. “But the boat guy is on some kind of strict schedule or something. I did tell him you guys were probably just”—he lowered his voice—“finishing up some business…”

There wasn’t one doubt in Gus’s mind that Ray, at least, knew exactly the kind of business they were finishing up.

“Yep. I’m coming now.”

“Well, in that case, honey,” he said, a laugh in his voice, “don’t rush on our account.”

The phone went dead in her ear, but Gus hung onto it for a few more beats. Gathering herself, she put the phone back in her pocket and turned to face Marshall.

God…he sucked her breath away.

He was lounging against the wall in the exact spot he’d pressed her, hands in pockets, his hair ruffled, the front of his shirt where she’d grabbed him all rumpled. His mouth was dark and a little swollen from their kissing.

The floor seemed to tilt a little as the realization she was falling for him almost knocked her on her ass. How could she be falling for him when, six months ago—well, seven now, actually—she’d been so devastated by a man she’d never thought she’d recover?

“I…” She cleared her throat. God…she couldn’t go down this track again. She had to get out of here. “I have to go. They’re waiting for me.”

He nodded, but if Gus thought she’d get out of here without another word from Marshall, she was sorely mistaken.

“I’m serious about the date,” Marshall said, his back still planted firmly against the wall as she headed for Thumper and the door. “I know you can feel this thing between us, too, so give me one good reason why not.” She drew level with him. “And, in this day and age of air travel, it better not be distance, Augusta.”

Gus leaned over to pick up Thumper’s cage, pleased for its weight grounding her. God alone knew what the bunny had made of the two of them going at it like, well…rabbits.

Walking out on Marshall was harder than she thought it was going to be, with his taste and scent still clinging to her clothes and filling up her senses, with his determination to see more of her stirring her heart strings. But she didn’t need a crystal ball to see the train wreck in her future—his history was enough of a heads-up.

And she’d barely survived her last train wreck.

“Because, Marshall, I have no desire to become your next ex-fiancée.”

He recoiled at her statement, his breath a harsh indrawn suck, but he’d wanted one good reason. And there it was—the ugly truth.

If he couldn’t handle it, that wasn’t her problem.