Page 2 of Wild Daddy

Instead, I find myself staring at a wall of man that seems to fill the entire doorframe.

He's massive. At least six-foot-four, with shoulders that could probably bench press a small car. Waves of dark hair that looks like he's been running his hands through it are thick, and a scruffy beard that belongs in a cologne commercial for men who chop their own firewood. But it's his eyes that stop my champagne-addled brain in its tracks—glacier blue and sharp enough to cut glass, currently fixed on me with an expression of barely contained amusement as a glass of amber liquid sits almost forgotten in the palm of one massive hand.

"Wrong door?" I squeak, my voice climbing an octave before cracking, reminding me that adolescence wasn’t that long ago. I manage to find the countertop with the base of the champagne glass, swallowing through the sudden dryness of my mouth, the glass scraping over the marble as I leave it untouched.

This flannel and denim clad genetically privileged man leans against the doorframe, and I catch the faint scent of pine and smoke. "Nope.” He cocks his head to the side. “Sign says ladies' room. You're a lady. I'd say you're exactly where you're supposed to be."

Heat floods my cheeks is this guy thick or what? "I meant for you. This is the women's bathroom. Although, it seems a little behind the times there’s no gender-neutral option."

"True, but there’s nothing gender-neutral aboutyou." His voice is like whiskey poured over gravel, with the hint of an accent I can't place.

“Really? And what exactly is gender-neutral supposed to look like?”

He doesn’t flinch. Just watches me with that steady, unreadable gaze. “That’s up to the person. Watched you come in here, felt like you might need something.”

I close my eyes for a second, sure when I open them, he will be gone, trying to process this situation through what is likely a .02 blood alcohol content. But when I open my eyes, he’s just there, taking a sip of what looks like whiskey from a crystal glass. "I’m pretty sure there are rules about a man entering a lady’s room without a janitor’s cart or a wrench to fix a leaking commode. You should find your way back to wherever it is you came from before I scream."

The corner of his mouth quirks up and instead of fear, I feel…something I can’t quite place. It’s fluttery and tense in an area of my lower body that suddenly feels awake. "That’s cute. I bet you’re beautiful when you scream. His smirk is infuriatinglyattractive. He takes another slow sip of his drink, taking a step forward. “Just making sure you’re not in here all alone having a breakdown.”

"I don’t have breakdowns." The protest comes out sharper than intended. "I'm just... processing."

"Uh-huh." He shoves one hand down into his front pocket, and I try not to stare at the area that my reptile brain suddenly feels is very important. "What are you processing?"

Maybe it's the champagne, or maybe it's the way he looks at me—not like I'm some fragile academic who'll break if the wind blows too hard, or like the kid who never quite fit in, but like I’m genuinely interesting to him. .

"Tomorrow, I start a wilderness survival assignment that's going to prove I'm completely incompetent at anything that doesn't involve a computer and a well-stocked library," I blurt out, my barely-there filter completely annihilated by the alcohol. "I'm going to spend three days making a fool of myself in front of some mountain man who probably thinks nineteen-year-old journalism majors are a waste of oxygen."

His eyes sharpen and I think he’s the biggest man I’ve ever seen. "Mountain man, huh?"

"That's what I'm picturing. Overalls, condescending, probably hasn't seen soap in a week." The words tumble out faster now, fueled by liquid courage and pent-up anxiety. "He'll take one look at me and know I can't tell north from south without a GPS. He will immediately be counting the minutes until our paid adventure is over."

"You’ve got a lot going on in that beautiful head. A little chaotic in there isn’t it?" he asks like he can see inside my brain.

He has a kind of stillness that few humans have, as though he doesn’t rush to do anything or get anywhere. Like he doesn’t need to prove anything to anybody and I bet he doesn’t care about grades. . I bet the flannel and denim he’s wearingare all 100% cotton. He looks ridiculously comfortable. Like he belongs everywhere without needing permission—ballrooms, boardrooms, or the wilderness I’m so afraid of.

"You don't know me," I blurt out sounding like a toddler.

"I know you caught that bouquet clean in the face and didn't cry." He nods toward the roses I've abandoned on the counter. "You’re tough."

The compliment hits me square in the chest, unexpected and warming. When's the last time someone called me tough? When's the last time anyone looked past my academic credentials to see something else?

Maybe it’s the champagne. Maybe it’s the way the harsh fluorescent light hits the tiled walls, somehow turning this lodge inspired bathroom with its faint disinfectant smell into something almost intimate. Maybe it’s nineteen years of being the good girl finally catching up with me.

Or maybe it’s the way this dark-haired stranger with the right-angled jaw and slightly crooked nose sees through the noise in my head and makes me feel, for the first time in a long time, like I’m not too much.

Like I might actually beenough. Just right.

The buzzing in my ears and a little voice in my head urge me forward, close enough to see the faint lines around his eyes, close enough to catch that intoxicating scent of pine and danger fueling the wild idea forming in my head. "You want to know what I've never done?"

His eyebrows rise as his fingers shift slightly around the glass in his hand. "What's that?"

"Kissed a stranger."

It’s bold and reckless and completely unlike anything I've ever said before. His eyes go dark, pupils dilating as he looks down at me.

"That a fact?" His voice has dropped to a rumble that I feel in my chest. “You’ve kissed non-strangers?”

His jaw muscle hardens as the cords in his neck stand out.

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