God damn those drinks were strong.
Easton and Gabe were having some kind of penis-waving fight over walking me back to the hotel. And if any penis is going to be waved in my direction, I definitely want it to be Gabe’s.
Let me clarify:
I would very much like Gabe’s penis to get waved in my direction.
But I’m pretty sure that’s the alcohol talking. It would be epically awkward to have to face him over that Wilder Adventures conference table knowing that we’d—to borrow Gennie’s very apt phrase—seen each other’s O faces.
Plus, I have no idea where Gabe’s head is on this. He gives so little away. Only, sometimes, what’s in his eyes. I thought I saw anger.
But then later, we had a funny moment over the giant lavender sachet joke, and I thought maybe there was still something between us. That ease, that charge that lit up both of us last night when we were saving the ducklings, and afterwards, when he kissed me.
That kiss. I can’t stop thinking about it. Once you’ve had someone’s mouth on yours, it’s impossible to see their face the same way. Gabe’s mouth just looks like something I want to kiss. I know that he’s forceful and gentle at the same time. Just the way I like it.
Also, I know he changed the subject so I wouldn’t have to talk about my life in New York. Is that because I told him something bad happened there?
He’s a good guy. I’m not wrong about that.
I am swaying in his direction, I realize. Trying to feel the heat of his arm against mine. Catch his scent—woodsy and male.
Of course, that means I’m not paying attention to my feet. And my ankles tend to give out after a full day of wearing heels. So I’m not surprised when I stumble over a rough bit of sidewalk.
I pitch forward, bracing myself for a fall, but Gabe catches me and sets me upright again.
“You need real shoes,” he says, his breath ghosting across my cheek.
He lingers, hands on my arms, giving me time to study how good-looking he is. Strong nose, slashed cheekbones. A day of scruff along an iron jaw. His lips full and well-defined. But his eyes are definitely the most striking part of him, dark and intense and fixed on mine.
His gaze drops to my mouth. My whole body goes hot. He’s going to kiss me. He’s going to—
He releases me and moves back to my side.
Disappointed, I walk in silence beside him. The caramel scent of cooked sugar wafts in my direction from a candy shop, and my mouth waters. We pass the bookstore, a couple of women’s clothing boutiques, the coffee shop, the bike shop, Nan’s, the smokehouse, and an all-purpose gift shop.
The Depot comes into view, and we amble up the front walk, side by side.
Should I ask him in? Ask him up?
Common sense screams no. My body, warm and tingly with lemon-drop goodness, howls yes.
“I’ll walk you in,” Gabe says.
My breasts tighten with anticipation. My sex, primed with alcohol, softens, melts, and clenches around the empty space I want him to fill.
He walks me as far as the elevator, asks me for my floor, and pushes the button. We stand there, facing each other. He’s studying me. In the dim elevator lobby, his eyes are so dark I can’t make out the pupils. Just the heat in his gaze.
The elevator comes, slides open. He puts his hand on the door, holding it open.
“I want you—”
My imagination goes wild.
Naked on the bed, legs spread.
On your knees in front of me.
At least three times before the sun rises.
“—to sit down tomorrow with each of my brothers and let them tell you about how they run their trips. You’ll get more out of that than out of me trying to mansplain all their individual models to you. Some stuff’s centralized, like the booking system. But almost everything else is specific to the type of trip.”
I’m nodding like I understand what he’s saying, but my brain is still trying to come back from where it went.
“Brody’s going to take us fishing Friday. We’ll go out with Clark sometime next week, and then Easton after that. I have to see if I can get a tag or two so I can take you turkey hunting.”
It’s sinking in that my alcohol-pickled libido is not going to get what it wants.
I have to remind myself that I’m not in Rush Creek to get myself in more trouble because of sex. I’m in Rush Creek to do exactly what Gabe was talking about: go on outdoors trips so I can earn the ungodly amount of money that Barb promised me. So I can remake my New York City life as a solo operator.
Solo. Simplest, and safest.
“Sounds good,” I say.
The elevator makes some kind of beeping noise, griping about the fact that Gabe is still holding it open. I step in. I brush by him to do it, and my body soaks up his heat. His forest-floor, bear musk, all-male scent.
He lets the door go.
It is almost closed when I see him drop his head into his hands.
He was feeling it, too. He might have been pretending to be all business, but he was torn. He wanted me as much as I wanted him.
I shouldn’t be so glad, but my drunken tingly bits are ready to celebrate with confetti.