Page 12 of Rough Daddy
The smaller cabin has the scent of a well-used fireplace inside. It’s minimalist, although I doubt Beau has hopped on that trend because it’s a trend. It’s just who he is.
There’s a wood-framed sofa with dark green cushions. A couple of polished tree stumps for end tables. I poked through the kitchen. A few white plates, mismatched coffee mugs. The refrigerator has a few bottles of water and beer inside, but not much else.
My luggage sits in a mountain of brown and gold in the corner.
Beau's out front, swinging a maul like he has a vendetta against every log. His black t-shirt clings to shoulders that could give me one heck of a piggyback ride.
When he strips it off and tosses it over a stump, I press my palm against the glass.
What the hell is wrong with me? The man was trying to help, and I lashed out like some feral cat. I snapped at him, not because I was angry but because I was scared. Because for a split second, all I saw and heard was my father losing his temper.
Now Beau is out there, sweating and gorgeous and probably thinking I’m a princess bitch. But my wrist is fine. Nothing broken, no pain except a little in my heart.
My phone buzzes against the counter, a fleeting signal coming through and delivering a message. A picture of Ethan flipping me off. My stomach clenches, but I just flip it over.
This I can’t fix right now, but there’s something else I can.
I want to march out there and show him how wrong he is about me. Want him to pin me against that woodpile and put his hands everywhere he's been so careful not to touch. Want to call him sir again and watch that muscle tick in his cheek.
For the first time in so long, I’m not thinking about cameras and angles and who might be watching.
Time to do something about it.
The impractical boots have to go before they send me toppling over that suicide drop behind the cabin.
My blouse is still damp from the car wash water. I root through my bags until I find the perfect balance between unconsciously sexy and semi-practical.
Inside the little bathroom, I strip, redress and emerge feeling more like Tina and less like Tessa.
I slip outside barefoot. The breeze kicks up. My nipples try to punch holes through the thin gauzy fabric of the vintage halter top I chose. I paired it with a tiered denim skirt, channeling my inner eighties girl as the screen door shuts behind me.
Beau swipes the back of his wrist over his forehead, resting the axe against a stump.
I hang back, watching the grouchy way he carries wood from the woodpile to the stone outdoor oven. Smoke winds out ofthe little chimney as he feeds a couple of new pieces into the opening.
I breathe deep.
The smell of woodsmoke and something incredible—bread? Pizza?—makes my mouth water.
"You cooking something?" I call out.
His movements stall, a split fragment of log in his left hand halfway into the fire. His eyes drag from my bare feet up my legs, my hips, my stomach, to where the halter top clings around my breasts.
"Yeah." His voice is as rough as the bark in his hands. "Hungry?"
"Smells amazing." I hop onto the grass from the porch, the cool ground centering me as it connects with the bottoms of my feet. I swing my hips as I walk his way until I’m close enough to feel the heat from the stone oven. And from him. "What are you making?"
"Food." He drops the log into the flames. "You look like you could use some good groceries."
"I'll have you know I had a very nutritious gas station hot dog for lunch."
His mouth almost twitches into a smile as he runs those rough fingers through the front of his hair. "Christ. No wonder you keep falling on your ass. All those nitrates."
"I didn't fall on my ass."
"Would have." He reaches down for another log, tossing it into the fire, then rubbing his palms together, his muscles shifting under the gleam of slightly sweat-dampened skin. "If I wasn't there."
I cock my head, wiggling my tongue behind my incisor. "Then I guess I should thank you for saving me… and my ass."
