Page 45 of When It's Us
I can hear Hutch below me getting ready for bed and let my mind wander a bit. He’s different from what I expected him to be on this trip. Sure, he’s still cocky and self-assured, and very rarely is he serious, but I’m learning it does happen. He’s also surprisingly talented with a computer, and he definitely knows his shit when it comes to designing and building homes, and I have to admit, even that is sexy.
But it’s more than that. When he talked me down out there at the zip-line it might have been cheesy as hell, but something about this man calms my storm. Like a buoy in the ocean, he’s reliableand constant and even when my own insecurities seem like they’ll take me under, he’s right there with reassuring words and a smile that rivals the literal sun.
God, the tequila must be making me sappy.
This guy literally makes things from wood, like things that people can actually use, like tables and chairs and shit. He buildshouses. Not only does he build them, he designs them. He’s got an inhumanly delicious body, a cock that should have its own zip code,andhe’s gentle. Humble even, if tonight is any indication.
As the lights go out and I drift off, warm and cozy under a mountain of blankets, there’s a lightness in my chest I haven’t felt in years. I don’t have to try very hard to realize Hutch is a big reason for that.
My feet are cold. There’s a steady ticking somewhere to my left. No, not a ticking…dripping maybe? Yes, dripping, that’s it.
Snuggling further down in my bedding, my foot touches something wet, jolting me out of my sleepy, tequila stupor. I try to sit up and smash my head into something hard.
“Ow. What the hell?” I mutter and sit up in the dark, and for a moment I can’t remember where I am.
The wind kicks up and it comes flooding back. I’m on the top bunk of Hutch’s Vanagon in… Where did he say we were again? In the middle of one hell of a storm. Thunder cracks, making me jump, and the wind howls. I reach for the lantern Hutch gave me that first night. My fears are confirmed by lifting it the slightest bit so as not to wake him with light brighter than the sun.
It’s raining like crazy, and somewhere, the canvas at the top of the pop-up is leaking. I run my hands along the bottom of my bed, and sure enough, it’s soaked. Opening the lantern a littlemore, I can see rivulets of water coursing down the side of the roof, running perpendicular to the bed.
On my knees in the semi-darkness, I roll up my sweatshirt and shove it against the leak, hoping to at least staunch the flow. Bringing the light a little closer, I can see a rip in the canvas near the top. Had the pop-up been closed, it probably wouldn’t be a problem, but since I’m currently using the loft for a bed, I’m able to see—and feel it.
I sit back on my haunches, trying to decide if I can take care of the problem myself or if I will have to wake Hutch. Several minutes pass as I run through things that might help, but short of duct tape and a tarp or a patch kit, I don’t think there is much hope for a dry bed tonight. Even if I had either of those things, it would at the very least require the rain to stop long enough to fix the problem. From how long it’s been raining, that’s not looking good either.
Pushing up on my knees, I carefully turn and lower myself to the floor in the dark. Unfortunately, my depth perception is shit in the dark, and I miss the tiny step, bashing my knee into the countertop, which creates a ridiculous ruckus when I knock a metal pot to the floor.
Barely illuminated from the side by a half-open curtain next to the bed, Hutch rolls over and sits up.
“California? You okay?” he asks, reaching over to click on the cabin light, bathing the area in dim light.
I’m suddenly aware that I’m standing in front of Hutch in nothing but a loose T-shirt and my panties, and fuzzy pink socks, that are currently wet, pulled up almost to my knees.
I tuck my arms over my chest and nod to the roof. “There’s a leak.”
Hutch’s brows come together, and he throws back the covers, exposing him in nothing but boxer briefs. It is absolutely not the time to be gawking at the beautiful man in front of me, but when he stands up and I have to back up a step so that my front doesn’t brush his, it’s a fight of epic proportions not to ogle him openly.
Hutch turns and effortlessly hoists himself up onto the top bunk. His back muscles bunch and shift as he does, and then he’s on his knees, ridiculously sculpted ass and thighs on display from behind as he bends over to fold himself small enough to get to the leak.
“Shit,” he mutters before straightening and moving back to the edge. He drops down in front of me, pulling the blankets with him.
“See if you can spread these out over the seats to dry, will you?” he says, then hands me the blankets.
I double them over, carefully keeping the dry parts together and the wet parts hanging over the seats close to the floor, so they don’t get wet, too.
I turn back to him. “What about the pad?”
“It’s not ideal, but I’ll have to leave it until the rain stops. I hate to close the roof when it’s wet, but if I don’t, everything else will be wet by morning, including us.”
I shiver but give him a nod.
“Get into bed before you freeze,” he says, voice deep from sleep, tipping his chin to his bed.
“It’s okay, I can—”
“Don’t argue with me,” he says, unlatching the roof and lowering it while still being careful to roll the canvas so that it doesn’t drip all over the floor.
On a good day, this pull-out bed looks like it barely fits Hutch. I’m not sure how both he and I will manage to fit, but it’s not like we have much choice. I strip off my damp socks and pull back his covers, slipping inside and scooting as far over as I can before laying back. I’m immediately met with his earthy scent of cedar and woodsmoke.
Hutch grabs a towel from one of the cabinets and runs it over the roof before tossing it on the floor. It’s clear by watching him that he takes great care of this vehicle, and it’s evident in the factthat it’s still in such good shape even though it’s damn near as old as I am.
