Page 10 of Wild Daddy

I sigh as I read but they are all variations on the same theme. Each one some variation on ‘I hope you didn’t drink last night,’ then, ‘Keep your nutrition balanced, log your macros, tell that guide your intake requirements,’ and ‘Take good notes.’, ‘We expect only the best from you.’

And the most annoying thing is, they’re right. Because I actuallyhadforgotten to factor in time this morning for breakfast.

Because nothing says "prepared for wilderness survival" like starting the day with a hangover and an empty stomach.

I grab a granola bar from the lobby and load my suitcase into my Honda. I try to remember the directions to Boone's Outdoor Gear. Main Street, a few blocks down from the lodge. Simple enough, even for someone whose navigational skills max out at using Google Maps to find the nearest Starbucks.

Wildfire is the kind of small town that looks like it's been designed by someone who's read too many romance novels about rugged mountain men and the city girls who love them. Which, considering my current situation, feels like the universe's idea of a joke. Main Street is lined with shops that have names like "Pine & Provisions" and "Mountain View Mercantile." Everything is rustic wood and hunter green paint, like the entire town has agreed to cosplay as a wilderness fantasy.

Boone's Outdoor Gear sits between a coffee shop and a place called "Martha's Kitchen" that already has a line of locals waiting for breakfast. The gear shop looks exactly like what I expected—weathered wood exterior, windows full of camping equipment I can't identify, and a sign that has definitely seen better decades.

A bell chimes when I push through the door, and I'm immediately overwhelmed by the scent of leather and something outdoorsy that reminds me of...

No. Not going there.

The shop is crammed floor to ceiling with equipment that probably has very specific purposes I'll never understand. Tents that look like they could survive a nuclear winter. Backpacks that could carry a small village. Knives that belong in horror movies.

"Be right with you," a gruff voice mutters from somewhere in the back, muffled by distance.

I wander toward the front counter, trying not to touch anything that looks expensive or sharp. There are business cards scattered next to the register—Cade Boone, Wilderness Survival Instruction—and I grab one to study it, remembering the tag line from the website, "Keeping city folks alive since 2015."

Charming.

There are also bottles of something called Wildfire Maple in a display case behind the counter with a sign that says they are a hundred dollars a bottle.

Is it whiskey? Or syrup? Wonder what’s in it…

Heavy footsteps break through my syrup thoughts coming from the back room, and I look up with what I hope is a confident smile. Ready to meet my doom. Ready to prove that academic intelligence and real-world competence are two completely different things.

The man who rounds the corner makes the room start to spin.

Massive frame. Dark hair that looks like he's been running his hands through it. Beard that belongs in cologne commercials. And glacier-blue eyes that I've been dreaming about for the past eight hours.

It's him.

Holy fucking shit, it's him.

"Well, well, what do we have here?" he says, those eyes locking onto mine with an expression I can't read. "You look different without all the pink."

My mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

No sound comes out, which is probably for the best because what I want to say is something along the lines of "You're the guy who... in the coat room... with your hands... oh God why am I speaking in fragments?”

I stand there like an idiot, opening and closing my mouth like a fish out of water.

"Uhn," I finally squeak, the involuntary sound strangled, pathetic and more than a little suggestive.

"Uhn? Not sure I know what that means." His eyebrows rise slightly, and there's definitely amusement lurking in those blue depths.

"I... Uhn…" I clear my throat and try to access some part of my brain that isn't currently screaming. "This is awkward."

"Awkward?" He moves around the counter with that same predatory grace I remember, close enough that I catch his scent that makes my body remember things it has no business remembering right now. "Not for me."

"You're Cade Boone." It isn't a question.

"And you are Miss Marley Voss." He leans against the counter, studying me like I'm a particularly interesting specimen. "Nineteen years old, journalism major, no outdoor experience. My booking agent said it should be an easy gig."

The way he says "easy" makes heat pool in my belly, which is completely inappropriate considering we're supposed to have a professional relationship for the next three days.

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