Page 121 of Rough and Rugged

His red beard juts forward as he grunts, and he opens his mouth to speak, but I can’t hear him— I’ve never heard his voice before. The beeping continues, growing closer, and I imagine he’s telling me to finish quickly before whoever is coming gets here and sees us exposed like this.

That’s when I realize the beeping isn’t what I think it is. And everything vanishes—the sexy lumberjack, the wood stump that was magically as comfortable as the mattress I’m actually lying on. The man of my dreams, who I’ve only ever seen once, yesterday. And I’m already dreaming about him doing dirty things to me.

But that ache between my legs felt so real. Soft cotton sheets brush against my heated skin as I drag my hand down to the spot, feeling the wetness.

But it was a dream.

“Damn it,” I mumble before throwing the covers off myself and getting out of bed. There’s a creak in the old wooden floorboards beneath my feet as I walk to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee. I’m loving it here, in this little cabin called Vacation Bluff, up in northern Wisconsin. It’s only my second day, yet I’m already falling in love with this location.

It could have something to do with the sexy man I was just dreaming about. Or it could be that it’s so damn peaceful up here. My gaze travels to the right, landing on the large canvas sitting on my easel, dim greens and blues covering it. Trapped in my thoughts, I go through the motions of pouring my coffee while thinking about what I’ll paint today.

I’ve got a gallery set in three months, and the number of finished paintings I’ll have to present will be scarily low if I don’t get several more completed, and fast. So I decided to do what any sane artist would and booked a cabin last week. Somewhere beautiful and quiet, offering just enough inspiration to get some work done but not enough to distract me. As long as you don’t count my sexy-as-sin neighbor next door.

I arrived early yesterday, and after unpacking my single bag of items, I headed to the small dock at the back of the cabin that looks over the gorgeous Lake Bluff. It was the perfect setup. I had my stool, easel, and paint cart, with the beautiful, warm afternoon sun beating down on me as I made colorful stroke after stroke, creating the monstrous canvas that’s leaning against the small loveseat in the living room right now.

The first sip of coffee soothes my soul as I step closer to examine my work. I know better than to inspect the thing, or I’ll likely scrap it and be stuck in the same rut I’ve found myself in for the last two months. But no, the brushstrokes look great, the coloring is better than some of my top-selling paintings, and the beautiful story behind it all is more than I could have asked for.

The breeze falls over my shoulders and rushes through my body, telling me change is here. Grabbing me and shaking me into my new future.

I still can’t believe I was able to get this place. My friend had told me it booked up really fast, but there was only one weekend available before the end of the year.

This weekend.

My phone screen shows a few emails that I’ll have to draft later because the service up here is atrocious. I’ll send them in two days when I’m on my way home to Milwaukee. Until then, I’m going to enjoy the solitude of this place.

I wash the mug and set it on the counter before rushing back to my bedroom to pick out my outfit for the day. Normally when I’m home, my favorite outfit for painting is my birthday suit. Just my skin and paint, with nothing to stand between us.

Today I stare at my stained white button-up and a pair of jeans. But I remember how uncomfortable I was wearing them yesterday. And how, when I looked to my left, a gorgeous man was chopping wood on the property next to my rental. Wearing nothing but a pair of jeans and some brown gloves. He seemed so comfortable in his environment—no insecurity of being shirtless in his surroundings.

His grunts echoed like he was making them just for me. And like in my dream, I knew he was sweating by how he kept wiping his forearm across his head, pushing the short salt-and-pepper hair around.

“Fuck it.” I smirk, stripping out of my nightshirt and putting on my black see-through bralette. I don’t have much in the breast department, but what I do have looks great in a bralette, showing just enough curve to make the eyes wander a little lower.

But if he’s going to chop wood half-naked, there’s no reason I can’t paint half-naked too. I throw the white button-up on, leaving it open as I grab my supplies and set up for another successful day of painting on the beautiful wooden dock.

I’ve got my phone blasting some R&B through my portable JBL speaker, and my paint colors are set and mixed on my palette. Closing my eyes, I sit on the stool, my bare ass cold on the wood. My black bikini panties shielding my pussy from the chill.

Letting the music, the sun, the wind, and everything else around me take my mind somewhere I’ve never been.

Deep breath in.

Deep breath out.

My eyes open, and I bring the brush up to the blank canvas. A deep yellow touches the white, infecting it with color and spirit as I begin painting. And before I know it, I’ve got this beautiful picture in my head that’s desperate to make it out and be seen on this canvas instead.

Chapter Two

Griffin

Theresheisagain.Sitting on that damn stool while painting. I should call Bob and break his neck for turning his damn cabin into an Airbnb while he and his wife travel around in some RV. I don’t know why I ever agreed to help him flip it between customers. But I went from having the nicest, quietest neighbors to the most annoying damn people from one side of the country to the next. They stay here for a few nights at a time, claim they’ve gotten to experience the rugged outdoors, and then leave. Trashing the place in the process.

At least I don’t mind her taste in music, but Jesus. Does she have to sit right there and paint all damn day? She’s a fucking distraction, and I have work that needs to get done. Yesterday was bad enough.

Her tawny curls blowing back and forth in the breeze. The way she sat on that stool, her back arched as she leaned forward to paint on the canvas. The sun beams bouncing off her perfect complexion and making my damn mouth water.

But fuck! Today she sits in nothing but a white shirt hanging just above her dark thighs. I can’t even enjoy my cup of coffee on the porch without staring at her like some damn pervert. She’s got a body men like me only dream about touching, thick curves to grab on to in the throes of passion. Caramel skin that fucking glows when the sun hits it just right.

I got pissed off about it yesterday and came out to chop some wood, hoping it would dispel at least a little of this anger. Or, at the very least, it would upset her enough to take her painting inside where I can’t see her. But no such luck. She sat out here just as long as I did.

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