Page 32 of Trapped with the Mountain Man

“But they’re here, worried about you. And rightfully so.”

“What does that mean? I’m fine. They’re overreacting, just like they always do.”

Hunter sighs and drags his hand over his face. He grabs both of our plates and takes them to the sink. When he turns back around to face me, he folds his arms across his chest and sets his jaw. I feel tiny. I feel like a child being lectured. So I stand, echoing his posture from my spot by the table.

“Abby, it’s not a good idea.” His voice softens a little. “But if you insist on doing this, then I’ll drive you back to town tomorrow so your family can at least see that you’re safe. Then we’ll pick up some supplies and we can finish the hike together. I’ll take next week off.”

This is a reasonable offer, but in my blind rage over being told what I can and cannot do by a near stranger, I bite back instead of accepting.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I need to do this on my own. It’s sort of the whole point. If I go with you, the hike will be about us…about frolicking all over the woods and having sex on every rock, tree, and squirrel we can find.”

“Sexona squirrel?” he asks, brows raised high. It would be funny if I weren’t so worked up by the whole conversation.

“Notonit, obviously. That’s not my point.” I trip over my thoughts and they come out all wrong. My cheeks are flushed and my heart is pounding against my throat. “My point is that I need to do this. I need to finish it by myself so that I can try to work through what happened last year. Having you there would be a distraction.”

I’m trying to convince myself as much as Hunter. I want to finish the hike, but heading back out onto the trail tomorrow sounds only marginally better than facing the media circus that awaits me back in town. Still, the idea of being interviewed by the press and endlessly embraced by my crying, overdramatic mother makes five more days of hiking seem easy by comparison. It’s impossible to explain what it’s like to be chased down by the media to someone who’s never experienced it. Whether they’re trying to make someone sound like a hero or a villain, they are ruthless in their pursuit.

I look up at Hunter and take in the sight of him. His soft lips and hard jaw. His broad arms folded across his solid chest. His narrow waist and hips, where I laid across him earlier. I could spend all night pleading my case, convincing him that going back on the trail tomorrow is the lesser of two evils for me. Or I could spend tonight, which could well be my last with him for now or forever, enjoying the strange connection we’ve formed during our short time together.

Dropping my arms to my sides, I sigh away the tension that’s built up between my shoulder blades and just look up at him fondly. He seems to read my cue and follows suit. I can see the considerable effort it takes for him to relax his jaw and soften his glare.

“Let’s just enjoy our last night together here,” I say.

Hunter gives a single nod of agreement before folding me into his arms.

That night, we alternate between soft kisses and needy ones. Gentle, trailing touches and rough, insatiable strokes. There are quiet moments and desperate ones. But when it’s over, in the brief moments between satiety and sleep, I know that this hike did change me…just not in the way I expected. I know I’m still not ready for this, but time seems lost and infinitely flexible in this little cabin in the woods. There will be time for us to sort this out later. We’ve both agreed to visit each other. Maybe this is perfect. Maybe by the time he’s really ready for me, I’ll be ready, too.

The next morning, sunlight drenches the cabin. There isn’t a cloud in the sky, but the ground is still stained with dark puddles of mud where the sun’s rays don’t quite reach. Birds are chirping and the smell of warm pine fills the air.

I hate it.

Secretly, I had hoped for another unexpected storm to roll in overnight. It’s not rational, but it would be easy to stay here and wait out storm after storm.

Hunter and I silently stare out the window over the dresser for a long while before either of us moves to get out of bed.

Once I’m finally upright, part of me buzzes with excitement over finishing the hike. I’d been dreading my decision yesterday, but today it feels completely right. Plus, it means another chance to see Hunter sooner rather than later. In five days, I’ll finish my hike, take a bus from the I-40 to Gatlinburg, and we can spend another couple of days together while I reschedule my flight.

While Hunter tries to scrounge up some breakfast for us, I start packing my belongings back into my hiking bag. I put on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt then roll the rest of my clothing up and cram them into my bag.

Hunter announces that breakfast is ready just as I’m finishing up. I walk across the room and find a bowl of instant oatmeal waiting for me with a pinch of cinnamon and sugar on top. We both eat in silence, propped against cabinets across from each other in the kitchen.

When we finish, I offer to do the dishes. I wash while Hunter dries. Next to the sink, the box of instant oatmeal is still sitting out.

“You’re picking up groceries in town today, right?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

“Could I have these then?” I point to the three remaining packets inside the box.

Hunter smiles and lets out a little laugh as he dries a bowl. “Sure, I guess. But if you’re looking for a souvenir, I think I can do better than some slightly expired oatmeal packets.”

“Well, the best souvenirs are the ones you can eat on the trail,” I joke. I don’t need to look over at him to realize he doesn’t find it funny. His posture goes rigid beside me and that poor bowl nearly shatters under Hunter’s death grip.

“Thought we agreed you you’d go back to town today,” he says low and slow, like the thunder that we’ve grown accustomed to hearing overhead.

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