Page 9 of Wild Daddy

"Wait," I say, grabbing her arm before she can take another step. I want to tell her I’m the one she booked her adventure outing with tomorrow. But, I also think it would be fucking fun to have her show up and see me there, ready to give her the kind of adventure that isn’t in the brochure.

She blinks up at me, confusion written on her features, as if… As if she thought I was done with her.

As if I couldeverbe done with her.

"It's... I'm...It’s okay." She stutters giving me this little wave like she’s saying goodbye; the orgasm glow still bright on her cheeks.

"Marley!" A chorus of female voices erupts from the reception hall, and she snaps her hand away from mine. Three bridesmaids descend on her like a flock of determined pink birds, apparently not even noticing me or the obvious fluster in their friend’s eyes. "There you are! We've been looking everywhere!"

"The photographer needs to take some end of the night pictures of the bridal party in the suite," one of them says, already tugging on her arm. "He’s waiting—"

"But I—" Marley looks back at me helplessly as they pull her toward the elevator, and a growl falls from my throat.

I step their way, ready to grab her. Ready to take what’s mine and never let it go.

"You still there?" Colt's voice crackles through the phone again. "We're losing time."

An eight-year-old kid lost in the mountains trumps everything else, even the most important thing that's ever happened to me.

"Twenty minutes," I bark into the receiver as the bridesmaids sweep Marley away. "We’ll find him, brother."

She looks over her shoulder, her eyes wide and confused for one last moment as the elevator doors slide closed.

Three

Marley

The hotel room is too bright, too quiet, and completely devoid of the massive mountain man who had his hands all over me in a coat room twelve hours ago. Which is probably for the best, considering I managed to get swept away by my fellow bridesmaids before I could even tell him my last name, like a complete disaster of a human being.

Or find outhisname. First, last, middle… I didn’t even overhear a damned nickname.

What would I do with that information anyway? Ask him on a date? My life is set. The course already mapped out. Being reckless with a kiss and some finger work is one thing, but getting my heart involved does not fit the planned program of my life.

Still, the faint beard burn along my jawline makes my chest ache. The tension lingering between my legs reminds me of the overwhelming pleasure of what he did to me. That’s a high I’ll be chasing the rest of my life.

Holy shit.

I throw off the stupid duvet, kicking it off my feet as I pad across the carpet to the bathroom, pressing my palms against the marble countertop and try to get my brain back online. I have approximately one hour before I need to meet my wilderness survival instructor, and instead of preparing mentally for three days of outdoor humiliation, I'm obsessing over a stranger who called me "little girl" and made me like it.

A stranger I'll probably never see again, I remind myself.

He could be married for all I know. Could be a serial killer. Could be literally anyone. But the way he looked at me, like I'm something precious he wanted to keep...

"Stop it." I reach out and flip the lever on the faucet, sending cold water spilling out of the tap. I splash it onto my face and get to work making myself look more like the Marley that I know and less like the girl who popped her orgasm cherry with a stranger in a coat closet wearing a pink dress. "You have bigger problems right now."

My thesis advisor called this assignment "immersive research." I call it three days of proving that skipping two grades might mean I’m academically advanced, but it sure as hell hasn't prepared me for real-world survival skills.

I dress in the gear I literally bought yesterday morning in a panic shopping spree at REI halfway to Traverse City. The hiking boots feel like concrete blocks. The moisture-wicking shirt is stiff and the tag is driving me crazy at the back of my neck. Even my backpack still smells like the store.

Perfect. I look exactly like what I am: a complete amateur.

My phone buzzes with a text and my heart drops sure it’s my parents making sure I’m dressed and ready. If I screw this up and don’t ace the final part of my first of what will likely be many post-grad degrees, they will take it as a personal affront to to their parenting and probably die from shame.

But, the text isn’t from them.

Sarah: Hope you're not too hungover! Remember to actually eat something before you meet Paul Bunyan today. I’ll talk to you when you get back. We’re heading to the air port now. Tahiti here we come!

Before I even set the phone down, it dings four more times in quick succession and I already know it’s my mom. She can’t write more than one sentence per text, instead choosing to blow my phone up with rapid fire messages.

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