Page 56 of Rough and Rugged

She flings her shorts over the edge of the truck bed, positioning them so the sun will dry the chino fabric.

The driver’s side door is still open, and I step back, allowing her the space to climb up on my seat. A seat I want to follow her on and then watch whatever she’s about to do next. Would she let my hand slip underneath that shirt? Skim along those thick thighs? Feel my way between them? Slowly discover what she’s wearing, if anything?

Fuck. My dick isn’t going to get a rest today, and I’m so tongue-tied I don’t say a word when she reaches for the handle and tugs the door open, forcing me out of the way so she can close herself inside the cab.

I want to watch her movements, but I give her my back, adjusting myself before removing the towel around my waist. My shorts will dry soon enough. My shoes remain wet and uncomfortable, but I’ve worn worse.

Soaked socks in a rainstorm. Too thin winter jacket in a blizzard.

When the latch clicks, I step forward, allowing Ginger to exit my truck. She drapes her blouse over the edge of the bed next to her shorts.

With a bungy cord she must have found in the truck, she’s made a belt, and suddenly my flannel shirt is the sexiest damn dress I’ve ever seen on a woman.

Her arms flare out to her sides. She glances down at herself. “I’d ask you how I look but I know you’ll tell me I look ridiculous.”

My tongue is still tied. With her hair still piled on her head and my shirt as her dress, she’s the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen.

“You’re—” A simple compliment won’t be enough.

“Whatever.” She waves her hand and turns away from me. “Let’s find Grant.”

I pull the sweatshirt she didn’t take over my head, knowing I’m going to be too warm, too fast under the blaze of sunshine heating up this summer day.

I’m also going to overheat spending more time with her.

However, with my eyes trained on her ass again, swaying quickly side to side as she walks away, I follow her like a pup afraid to lose his person.

We don’t find Grant. Instead, we stumble upon the ax throwing contest which doesn’t allow open-toe shoes, so for now, Ginger continues to wear her wetgymshoes. Because she registered us as partners in the mixed couple competition.

She shrugs. “I figure those strong arms know how to swing a thing or two.”

She has no idea what I want to swing in her direction. Or how I’d swing her, if given the chance. The thought is ridiculous considering that damn ring on her finger. The one I’m surprised she didn’t lose in the lake, or give a thought to, while log rolling. That rock could have easily slipped off her finger and been lost forever.

Wouldn’t that be a shame?

The thought is unkind. Grant has told me over and over again how his sister is inlove. Wesley is thegreatest. He’s rich and cultured, andblah-blah-blah. I hardly listen when he talks about him, and Grant’s mocking tone tells me he doesn’t like to hear the praise either.

Wesley. Wesley. Wesley. What kind of name is that?

A man who probably plays tennis and wears wool.

“Duncan. Solomon.” Our names are read as if they are one, and for an instant, I wonder if Ginger will hyphenate her name when she’s married. Duncan Solomon has a nice ring to it, even with the names reversed.

When another couple is called—The Fishes Named Wanda—wearing matching shirts decorated with jumping trout and fishing poles step up, I remember Ginger and I can never be a couple.

“Ladies first,” the announcer states as Ginger and I enter the pen set up for us. The wooden bull’s eye looms at the end of a long, narrow, fenced galley, similar to a batting cage. Two lines are drawn in the dirt.

I point to the closer one. “You can stand there.”

Ginger narrows her eyes. “Because I’m a woman?” She speaks like the label is offensive when the beautiful honorific best defines those curves, that sass, those distinguishing breasts. There isnothingwrong with her being a woman. And I’m curious if she’s still wearing her nude-colored bra beneath my shirt. Or are her bare nipples brushing against the inside? Is the material soft? Does it excite her?

Squinting, I can’t tell either way and then I quickly divert my glance.

“Just stand on the line,” I demand, sharpening my finger-point. Watching as she steps up and lugs the ax over her head, my breath catches. “Do you even know what you’re doing?”

She’s standing in such a manner that her swing could lead to momentum and she’d chop off her own leg. I take one large step closer to her and clasp her wrists.

“Like this.” I reposition her arms, lowering the ax a bit. Placing my head beside hers, my bearded cheek to her soft flesh, I breathe near her ear, “Focus.”

---