Hard Wood Page 4

  “Here’s one I don’t think I’ll ever get over,” I say, raising my shades and leveling my gaze at her. No joking. No teasing. No sarcasm. “Being sick.”

  Her expression softens. Her lips part. She swallows. “I can see that about you.”

  “I want to be healthy. I want to be well. I want to make my own choices every day. Health is such a gift, and what I’m afraid of most is losing it for God knows what reasons.”

  “Like something catastrophic?”

  “No, but yes. But it’s also just anything—flu, cold, whatever. I hate being sick. I don’t ever want to be the unwell guy.”

  She brings her hand to her chest. “You’re making me want to give you a hug.”

  Well, that is an unexpected bonus.

  “I won’t turn you down,” I say playfully.

  She steps closer, stands on tiptoe, and wraps her arms around me. She tucks her head against my pecs, her cheek on my shoulder. Oh hell. She fits me like the perfect pair of hiking boots. The kind that feel so good you want to spend your day in them. She’s soft and curvy in the right places, strong and lean in others, and her hair smells like pineapple. There’s also a hint of coconut, and I know it’s one of the products she makes—tropical body wash. I’d like to lick her neck, suck on her jaw, flick my tongue against her ear. I bet she’d shiver if I pressed my mouth to her. I bet she’d tremble if I nipped on that soft earlobe, then she’d arch into me, asking for more.

  Begging for more.

  But my dirty thoughts are washed clean instantly when she whispers into my shoulder. “I’m afraid of hurting my family.”

  “Yeah?” I ask, and all my instincts tell me to raise a hand and pet her hair. So I listen to my gut. I run a hand down her blond locks. Jesus. She’s like a kitten. Her hair is so soft.

  “I love my stupid brothers, and I want to do right by them. They always looked out for me when I was younger. I was the smallest kid in school.”

  “You were?”

  She nods against my chest. “Shockingly, I didn’t have the massive growth spurt all the way to five-foot-one until I turned fourteen. When I was in grade school, other kids teased me, saying I looked like I was still in nursery school. Even in second grade, the running joke was that I was a kindergartner. I hated it because I just wanted to fit in. And my brothers, they taught me it didn’t matter. They taught me to be tough. They never made fun of me for my size. They did the opposite, in fact. Max was the one who said my size would come in handy for gymnastics. That it would be my secret weapon,” she says, pulling back and meeting my eyes with an intense stare.

  “He was? Our big, boorish Max?” I laugh, because that’s kind of cool. Correction—that’s incredibly cool.

  The corner of her lips curve up. “Yep. Our big, boorish Max. He told me it was the one sport where being tiny would be a true advantage.”

  “He was right.”

  “My parents were totally supportive, too, but it was Max who was always there for me. He would get so excited when I’d win a competition. He’d cheer the loudest, lift me up on his shoulders when I won a gold. He was five years older, and when I was ten, he was already more than a foot taller than me. His enthusiasm was like an explosion of happiness in my chest,” she says, tapping her breastbone. “And he was right. My focus on gymnastics made me stop caring that kids mocked me for being small.”

  “I like your size.” Because really, what else is there to say? She’s little, and it’s perfect for her.

  Her voice goes soft, kind of sexy. “I like yours.”

  And right now, I want to make s’mores porn with her. I want to tug her back into my arms and show her how well our sizes fit.

  But right when we’re veering into the flirty, let’s-compliment-each-other phase of getting-to-know-you, the sound of crunching footsteps ahead interrupts us.

  A pair of hikers appears, heading in our direction as they go down the hill. That’s my cue to move on from whatever moment we’re having. We soldier on in silence, nearing a heavyset guy in safari shorts and a straw hat. The woman right behind him wears a small backpack and uses a walking stick.

  I tip my forehead to them. “How are you doing?”

  “Can’t complain. It’s a perfect day,” the guy says.

  “It sure is.”

  “And that’s one helluva cat you have with you.”

  “Why, thank you,” Mia chimes in as we step out of the way, letting them pass. “He’s an adventure cat.”

  “Fred, why don’t we train our Siamese to wear a harness?” the woman asks.

  “Sweetheart, we have a no-drag cat. That’s what I heard on TV yesterday.”

  Mia chuckles to herself. As she does, I flash back to their words. Not the ones about the cat. The ones before. It’s a perfect day. That’s a bold statement. I’m not so sure my day is perfect, but I’d have to say it’s pretty damn good.

  And, moment or no moment, that has to be enough. This is all I’ll have with Mia – little moments every now and again.

  A little later, we reach the water. The stream races downhill, rushing over rocks, cutting over stones. A huge tree trunk rests over the creek, providing passage to another trail.

  Mia hands me the leash. “Watch me.”

  Easiest command ever.

  She steps onto the log, crosses it as if it’s a balance beam, dipping her foot along the side with each step, sticking out her chest, and flinging her arms up triumphantly. My heart skitters faster, and I can’t help but worry about her, no matter how many gymnastics meets she won as a young girl. When she reaches the middle, she bends forward, sets her hands flat on the log, and kicks her legs straight up.

  She’s ruler straight, and beautiful upside down. Her hair spills to the wood, and she beams the wildest grin at me. “Like my handstand?”

  “Love it, but please don’t do a back handspring or whatever they’re called,” I warn, because I’m feeling like what she described feeling on a balcony—only I’m imagining Mia tumbling off the log.

  “I didn’t win the all-around fifth-grade gold for nothing.” She flips over, nailing the landing. She leans forward now, her arms straight out to the side, one leg kicked high behind her. “Hey, Mr. Hooky! What do you think? Am I enjoying my day off?”

  “Too much.” I shake my head, laughing as I scoop up Zeus, drop him in the pack, and carry him across the log on my back. I keep him there as we climb a series of steep switchbacks to the top of a hill, where a meadow awaits.

  “Wow,” Mia says, her eyes roaming across the grass and flowers, admiring the view.

  I’m admiring the view, too. Mia, standing in one of my favorite places on Earth. Maybe this is a perfect day.

  I tap my watch. “Did we make it in time? Is the food mood ring pointing to disagreeable?”

  Mia rubs her belly. “We’re this close.”

  As I spread out a blanket, I’m struck by the thought that if this were someone else’s story, the girl would have tumbled on the log, I’d have caught her, played the hero, and we’d have shared a moment. But our moment came before she flipped upside down on a felled tree. Our moment transpired on the trail when she hugged me out of the blue, and for several fantastic seconds I had a taste of how well we’d fit.

  As I unpack the food, I wonder if we’ll experience any more moments, or if today is all I have before I have to get serious about letting go of this crazy crush once and for all.

  5

  Mia groans. “I’m stuffed.”

  “How is that possible?” I lean back on the red-checked blanket spread out on the grass. “You barely ate anything.”

  “Not true. For the record, I devoured the surprise strawberries, the almonds, the Gouda cheese, the yummy crackers, and the olives. Everything but the turkey jerky.”

  “You do realize you just rattled off snacks. That’s all you ate. Snacks. Not a meal.”

  “Now you have something against snack food. Are you a snack-ist?”

  “Quite the opposite. I happen to think
snacks are among the greatest joys in life.”

  She rests on her elbows, her legs stretched in front of her, crossed at the ankles, and turns her gaze to me. “And what are the others?”

  I meet her eyes straight on. “Sex.”

  Her expression is blank at first, then a laugh bursts from her lips. “Well, yeah. But what else?”

  My eyes bug out. “That’s not enough for you?”

  “You said ‘joys,’ as in plural. I was waiting to hear the others.”

  “Ah, simple misunderstanding,” I say, nodding. “See, the answer was plural because with me, the sex is so good it’s multiplied.” Then I wiggle my eyebrows.

  Once more her face is a tabula rasa, and then her entire body shudders. We’re talking head-to-toe laughter. “You sound like the dirty kangaroo meme now. You know him?”

  “Oddly enough, I’m not familiar with the filthy marsupial.”

  “He’s a douchey marsupial,” she corrects. “Anyway, he’s this weirdly muscular kangaroo, lying down, looking like a ’70s porn star, all suave and cocky as he says things like, ‘Hey girl, ever been down under?’”

  I scratch my chin. “So what you’re saying is I’m a douchey kangaroo, and you don’t like sex multiplied. Fair enough.”

  She fixes me with a you’ve got to be kidding stare as she sits up to swat my elbow. “That was for saying something ridiculous. Obviously, I like multiplication. It’s my favorite form of arithmetic,” she says, giving me a very naughty wink that sets off a new round of lust in me, as I picture how she’d look after two times two orgasms.

  The answer? That’s what a perfect day looks like.

  Flopping back down, she takes a deep breath and raises her face to the sky as if she’s soaking in the sun’s rays. She sticks out her flat belly and adds to the look by ballooning her cheeks. “But maybe no plurals or multiplication for me when I have a snack baby growing.”

  I raise an eyebrow. Her belly is a board. A sensual, alluring board I want to kiss all over. Yeah, that’s what Mia does to me. Gets me aroused thinking of kissing her board belly. “You can’t even make your belly look full.”

  “Yes, I can,” she says, huffing and puffing and trying hard to make her midsection round. “Just feel it. You can feel the snacks growing inside me.”

  I stretch an arm across to pat her tight, trim belly, wishing for a second I was feeling it under different circumstances. But even I’m not enough of a pervert to be turned on by her pretend belly. Her goofball side? That’s another matter entirely. It’s endearing and, admittedly, enticing.

  I wish it weren’t.

  “Do you have a turkey jerky baby in you?” she asks, her tone intensely serious.

  I pat my abs. “Definitely.”

  “Do you think Zeus has a tuna baby in his furry belly?”

  “Absolutely,” I say, glancing at Zeus, lolling in a tuna coma. I pick up the empty can of fish from his side and place it in the trash bag.

  “Anyway,” Mia begins, her tone shifting, “can I be serious for a moment?”

  I point my thumb over my shoulder as if gesturing to the past. “You weren’t serious just then?”

  “Ha ha. But what I wanted to say is thank you. I was a stress case about work, and even though I didn’t work today, the time I spent here cleared my mind. I feel like I can go back and tackle the problems. And while we were hiking, I came up with several possibilities for new suppliers based in the area.”

  That piece of intel pricks my ears. “Think you’ll be spending more time in New York, then?”

  An I wish laugh falls from her lips. “Most of my work on the deals can be done remotely. Give me a screen, and I’m good to go. But I’m grateful you encouraged me to play hooky today. I needed it, and I can only imagine how beneficial this is for when you lead corporate groups. They must get so much out of it.”

  “I’d like to think they do. After the trust falls, of course.”

  She presses her hands together in prayer. “Please tell me you don’t do trust falls.”

  “Any guide who works for my company signs two agreements—don’t sleep with the customers, and never ever do a trust fall.”

  “You do need to have standards.”

  “And thank you, Mia,” I say, stripping the teasing from my voice as the sun shines high above us now, warming my skin, bathing us in its afternoon glow. I’m fortunate that my corporate retreat business has grown in the last few years. A lot of companies use us for day trips for their employees, for rafting expeditions, and for weekend canoeing retreats. It’s kind of cool to watch employees come together. “The reports back from that side of the business have been great. They say the trips foster bonding, improve morale, and help the employees adjust better to changes in their companies. I don’t mean to sound like a broken record, but I think sometimes we forget that our bodies were designed to be active. We think best when we walk, or run, or stretch, or bend.”

  Mia flashes me a big smile that shows off her dimples, those adorable dimples that nail me in the heart every single time I see them. “I love that you’ve turned your passion into this huge success.”

  “Well, Zeus helped,” I say, giving credit where it’s due.

  Mia sits up, stretching to pet him as he basks in the sun. “I feel like he has the right idea. Can we take a catnap?” As if to emphasize her point, her mouth opens into the hugest yawn I’ve ever seen.

  “Catnaps are always a good idea. I only have one rule. We need to nap in a tent.”

  “You have a tent?”

  I blink. “Sorry, what did you say? Do I have a tent? Do takeout containers unfold into plates? Does the word bed look like a bed?”

  She squints. “Holy cow. Bed does look like a bed.” She furrows her brow. “But when did takeout containers start unfolding?”

  “Evidently, they always have. But they work better folded as far as I’m concerned.”

  “They work really well folded. So well that I don’t know why anyone would unfold the container. But about your tent . . .”

  I smirk because I can’t resist the innuendo. My eyes stray to my crotch, and she blushes for a second.

  “Your tent. The one you brought with you. You really have a tent in your pack?”

  “Mia, I was a Boy Scout and then an Eagle Scout. You never know when you might need a tent, and I don’t advise snoozing out in the open on public trails. Even if we’re mostly alone.” I gesture to the wildflower-filled meadow we’ve claimed as our own.

  I reach into my pack, grab a pop-up beach tent, and unfold it, setting it up in less than three minutes. With avid interest, Mia watches the whole time, and even though I’m not doing something strapping like building a house or fixing a tire, I still like that she seems to dig that I’m handy. That I’m prepared. And that I have everything she’s asked for. I tug on the end of the blanket, and she stands and hands it to me. I spread it on the floor of the tent.

  “Ladies first.” I gesture for her to go in.

  “Such a gentleman.”

  As she lies down, all I can think is that she doesn’t know the half of how gentlemanly I am being right now.

  Because what I really want is to do ungentlemanly things to her as she curls up next to me in a tiny nap tent.

  6

  Conversations with the Cat

  Zeus

  With a belly full of fish and a sun-warmed spot on the blanket, the cat was ready for yet another nap. He hadn’t quite hit his full allotment of sleep for the day. He needed to catch up so he could be fully rested to sleep more tomorrow. The man was sound asleep, and the cat considered draping himself over his master’s head. Surely, the man would sleep better with a cat wrapped around him. But then the woman flipped to her side, staring at him with big eyes. Was she going to stare him down? A cat?

  Just try it.

  But instead, she scratched between his ears.

  Oh, baby. Do that again.

  She obliged, stroking him more. He kicked up the noise box, purring at h
er.

  “You’re loud,” she whispered under her breath.

  Raising her hand, she scratched his chin. “You’re mighty handsome.”

  Yep, keep it up.

  “You’re a perfect pair,” she said, her eyes drifting from the feline to his master.

  He rumbled louder, waiting for the woman to say more.

  “A pair of lady-killers.” She sighed as she stroked his back. “What’s a girl to do?”

  As she whispered, his feline thoughts drifted to a certain calico lady on the ninth story who might want to share a can of tuna with him at some point. He’d need to convince his master to take a trip on the elevator to her floor. He liked her whiskers. He liked her tail, too.

  The woman’s eyes drifted to the man, his chest rising and falling, the look on his face serene.

  “If things were different . . .”

  She sighed.

  “Maybe then . . .”

  She rubbed his furry belly.

  “But I don’t know how to make it all work.”

  So good. The rubbing was so good. He tuned out the woman’s chatter, and eventually she stopped talking.

  The man rustled, stretching his arms over his head, but still slept. The woman’s eyes widened as the man’s shirt rode up. Her breath seemed to catch as she stared at his stomach. Stared, and stared, and stared, as if it were a bird she wanted to devour.

  Well, that made sense.

  Birds were mighty tasty.

  A few minutes later, the woman fell asleep, tangled up with the bird she wanted to eat.

  7

  Warm flesh presses to mine. Soft breath flutters in my ear. The body I most want to get my hands all over brushes against my side.

  Torture. Exquisite torture.