Roughing It

7. Hudson

CHAPTER SEVEN

hudson

Dropping the sandwich I made in Blakely’s lap, I bolt for the porch. What am I doing? Bringing her luggage in, agreeing to share a bed. What’s next? Taking her on a romantic picnic? This woman’s got me disregarding every rule, crossing every boundary I’ve put in place over the years.

Keep the relationship clear. Client and guide. Keep the walls up. The rules serve me well. You carry your own shit. You leave when I say it’s time. You sleep on the couch, or your bedroll, or tent, or wherever I tell you to.

Clients balk from time to time, but they always fall in line. Not Blakely Bradshaw. She pushes and pushes, and while it drives me batty, I also can’t get enough of it. I want her to push me. Push me to my breaking point, so when I snap and kiss the breath out of her, I can have an excuse for my actions.

Plead temporary insanity. It’s not my fault, officer; the bewitching goddess drove me to it.

These feelings must be guilt over not checking her boots before we went on that clusterfuck of a hike. That’s all. I screwed up. What guide worth their salt doesn’t check the client’s gear? Those turquoise eyes filling with tears had my gut twisting and my chest aching.

I may be direct, but I never want to be the reason a woman cries—even when that woman drives me up the fucking wall with her never-ending questions, stubbornness, and sexy little body.

The faint sound of water running draws my attention. She’s taking a bath. Is she using the Epson salt like I told her? Did she remove the moleskin? Is she able to situate herself? Is she wet and soapy? Does she need someone to wash her back?

My cock strains against my pants, the image of Blakely covered in suds and nothing else sending all the blood in my body below my belt. With a growl, I launch myself from the swing and stomp towards the forest line. I need to burn off some excess energy before I make a terrible, wonderful mistake.

I can’t let this woman get to me. This isn’t me. I’m the responsible one. The clear-headed, rational one. Not like my brothers, who follow their whims wherever they may take them. No. I’m practical. There’s no room in my life for a woman like Blakely, a spoiled social media starlet who plays pretend all day. I live in the real world, where things aren’t handed to you because of your name. You have to work for them.

The real world, where when you let someone in, they stomp all over your heart and throw it back at you like it’s chicken shit. Where the bright lights of the city draw in women like Blakely Bradshaw like a rooster to the dawn.

Focus, Hudson. This is nothing more than an opportunity to grow the business. Help spread Peak Adventures’ name. Nothing else.

Pine trees and the October air fill my lungs. Each deep inhale settles me. The quiet cleanses the desire and irritation lingering in my system—except not really, because somehow in less than forty-eight hours, Blakely Bradshaw has wormed her bratty way under my skin.

I can’t pinpoint why. She’s a client like any other.

Liar. My mind taunts me with flashes of blue-green eyes and honey-blonde hair. Curves that put the winding mountain roads to shame. And a fiery mouth I want to fuck so goddamn bad.

Groaning, I run my hand through my hair and force myself to focus on why this woman is wrong for me. Starting with her pampered ass complaining about the couch. I’ll show her how much she’s overreacting—typical princess behavior. Of course, a couch isn’t good enough for her. She needs eight thousand thread count sheets and baby goose feathers or some shit.

With righteous indignation on my side, I trek to the cabin. I have enough sense to peek my head in before storming inside in case she’s still soaked and slippery. Instead, I find her on the bed, my grandma’s quilt tucked around her, like it’s where she fucking belongs.

“Welcome back.”

Instead of answering, I grab the first aid kit and work on properly drying her feet and tending the sore spots with ointment. I may have dropped the ball once today, but I won’t do it again. It’s my job to make sure she’s safe.

“Enjoy your walk? Or whatever you were doing in the dark, alone in the forest.” She grins. “I’m not saying you’re giving off serial killer vibes, but…”

Fuck if she doesn’t have the cutest little toes. I bet she’d giggle if I sucked them… and like a startled deer, I jerk away, dropping her foot onto the bed.

“Hey, careful.” She wiggles those pink-tipped toes at me, and I retreat to the safety of the bathroom, taking my time cleaning up before stomping to the couch and flopping down. The lumpy cushions give beneath my weight, causing the springs to jab into my back. Gritting my teeth, I toss until I find a semi-comfortable spot.

“I can hear your back aching from here.”

I don’t say anything; instead, I tuck my arms behind my head and close my eyes.

Unbothered by my lack of response, Blakely keeps talking. “I’m so glad I brought toilet paper. Did you know you only have one-ply? It’s barbaric.”

“What?” Her words catch me off-guard, and I forget my resolve to ignore her.

“Toilet paper. Two-ply versus one-ply. Kirk laughed at me when I packed a twenty-four pack of the good stuff, but there are some things you can’t compromise on.”

I huff out a laugh and mutter, “Couch, hike, toilet paper, me. Is anything about this place good enough for you, Princess?”

“Don’t call me that.”

Shit, I was louder than I thought.

The lamp clicks off, and Blakely clears her throat. “I’m mostly joking about the toilet paper, though chaffing is a real concern. Thank you. For taking care of my feet, for making me a sandwich, for agreeing to this even though you hate me. This place is lovely.”

“I don’t hate you, Blakely.” I hate she thinks that.

“It’s a pretty brave thing, me being alone with you in this cabin, miles and miles away from another person. Leaving my entire world behind for a month to spend it with a stranger. It may not seem that way to you, but for me, it is. I’m trusting you, Hudson.”

My heart jumps in my throat, her last words ringing in my ears. I wait for her to say more, to say anything else, but for once, she’s silent .

As I drift off to sleep, she whispers, “So you know for next time, I prefer mustard on my sandwiches.”

And I lay there in the dark, grinning like an idiot.

Two hours later, my grin is long gone. This couch fucking sucks. I’ve sat on it here and there, but I lean more towards the single recliner or the barstools. Damn if Blakely isn’t right.

I toss and turn, hunting for a comfortable spot, but it doesn’t exist. I’m too long for the stupid thing, too, so it’s either let my feet hang off or curl up, but I’m too fucking wide to curl.

From across the room, Blakely’s steady breathing stirs the still air. She’s passed out cold. I don’t blame her. That bed is fucking comfortable. I replaced the old one when I started staying out here on my own a couple of weekends a month.

Guess I should replace the couch, too. But you can bet your sweet ass it won’t be until my Spitfire’s back in the city where she belongs. Shit. Not my Spitfire. Not my anything. Just a client.

I stifle my thoughts because if I don’t sleep, I really will be a fucking bear tomorrow. Yanking my pillow off the couch, I pad to the bed. We are two adults sharing a sleeping space. Nothing more.

Careful not to wake her, I slip between the sheets. She stirs a bit, and I hold my breath, hoping she’ll settle. Instead, in the slivers of moonlight, I see a knowing smile.

Without opening her eyes, she whispers, “Told you the couch sucks.”

Little brat .

“Need me to build that pillow wall?” When I don’t answer her, she murmurs, “G’night, Hudson.”

Damn, if her sleep-filled voice doesn’t do something to me. In an out-of-body moment, my hand moves of its own accord and smooths a stray tendril of gold hair behind her ear.

When my roughened hand brushes her smooth skin, Blakely nuzzles into my touch but shows no other signs of being awake. She follows the heat of my palm, searching for more—like a touch-starved kitten. As gentle as I’ve ever been, I cradle her cheek. A soft mewl falling from her full, pouty lips is my reward.

No. I can’t read into it. Her reaction is some sort of involuntary response. She’d act this way if anyone caressed her beautiful face. And what the fuck am I doing touching her while she’s asleep, anyway?

Don’t be a fucking creep, idiot.

I roll to the edge of the bed, angry with myself for touching her without consent and for thinking her sweet little sigh is anything more than a reflex. And for wishing it is.

She’s a client. Nothing more. She’ll never fit in here, never settle for someone like me. She’s another Paige. A city girl playing at the country life. The refrain plays in my head until exhaustion pulls me under.

DAY TWO

Something warm and soft snuggles against me, and a waft of floral and citrus fills my nose. Blakely.

Shit. My face is buried in her hair, while her cute little nose presses to my neck and her arms wrap around my waist. One of her legs rests between mine. The only way we’d be closer is if I was inside her. My dick jumps at the thought, and I groan, willing my blood to flow to other, more needy parts of my body, like my fucking brain.

She wriggles and stretches, and just as I untangle myself from her grasp, she cracks open one eye. “Hudson?”

I grunt out a sound that could be mornin’ if you squint real hard.

“What are you doing?” We’re still wound together, and she studies me warily.

I’m painfully aware of the hard-on pressing against her hip. Fucking morning wood. And city sirens.

“Your arms are around me.” And mine are still around her, but I don’t point that out.

“What are you implying?” she asks but makes no move away.

We’re locked in a fucked up game of chicken, neither of us willing to give in first.

“You’re on my part of the bed.”

“So you think we’re all snuggled up because of me? If I remember correctly, and I do, you’re the one who crawled into the bed last night.” When I don’t answer her, waves crash in her ocean eyes. “You’re holding me just as much.”

I pull my arms away—losing the battle—and put an inch of space between us. “It’s not like I grabbed your leg in the middle of the night and put it between my thighs.”

“I don’t know, Hudson, maybe you did.”

Her indignant huff puts a burr under my saddle. “I don’t make it a habit of cuddling with city women with more shoes than sense.” As I say it, I roll to my side and shift, giving her my back.

“And I don’t make it a habit of talking to jerks who sleep-hug people without their knowledge.”

Her words drive me to my feet, angry at my body’s reaction to her, frustrated with her for curling into me, annoyed at the universe for wanting so much more. My fingers flex, and I fight the desire to cup her chin and shut her sassy fucking mouth with mine. I fold my arms. Better than accidentally giving in. “So does this mean I get a reprieve from your constant nattering?”

“Who even says nattering anymore? Who are you, Davy Crockett?”

I grunt and stomp to the bathroom, leaving her on the bed, sulky and deliciously sleep-rumpled.

To my retreating back, she hollers, “You better not take too long in there!”

The way my dick tries to jump out of my pants, it won’t be long at all. In the relative safety of the only doored room in the cabin, I let out a groan and shoot daggers at my cock. Fucking traitor.

How the hell did Blakely and I end up with our arms and legs around each other? And why did it feel so fucking good? It’s been years since I’ve wanted someone the way I want her. I swear she was safely on her side of the bed when I crawled in a little after midnight. It’s nearly seven now. Did we spend the entire night that way?

I’m not a heavy sleeper, but I’ll be damned if I stirred even once. Not until the scent of flowers and fruit flooded my senses. My hand drifts to my cock, giving it a tight squeeze. I dig in the medicine cabinet before uncapping the lid on a familiar clear bottle.

I work myself, using the lube to ease the rough friction from my touch, but before long, it isn’t my work-worn, oversized paw sliding down the length of my dick; no, it’s a smaller, softer hand. One with pale pink polish that can’t quite close around it. The fantasy takes on a life of its own, transforming to Blakely on her knees, that pouty, petulant, perfect mouth licking my cock. I grit my teeth and drop my head, my heavy pants bouncing off the walls.

Her glowing skin against my larger body, writhing, sweating, panting. Her puffy lips stretched and swollen around me. Fuck. With a groan, I come, my head falling forward, torn between satisfaction and defeat.

I’ve got to get a grip. Well, the other kind of grip. I flush and wash away the evidence, giving myself a stern talking-to while I brush my teeth. She’s a city woman. She’s not staying, and she’s not interested. I’m making a fool of myself, falling into a trap I swore I never would again. After another round of reminders, I’m ready to tackle whatever the fuck today brings my way.

But as soon as I’m back in her presence, Blakely surprises me.

“Hey. Peace offering?” She has two cups of coffee and a smile. So fucking pretty. She hasn’t added the armor she calls makeup yet. She’s beautiful then, too, but I prefer her this way, effortlessly perfect in her imperfection.

I freeze, thinking about what I did behind the bathroom door. Fuck, I hope she wasn’t there the whole time.

Her grin dims. “This morning was awkward, and we both said some things. Anyway, I don’t want to spend the entire month fighting. So we spooned a little in our sleep; it’s no biggie.”

Our fingers brush when I take the coffee, and I swear she shivers.

I clear my throat and say, “Seeing how you aren’t up to hiking, we’ll get a baseline of your wilderness experience and survival skills.” Something else I should’ve done yesterday before taking her on the hike.

“Fine. I need to get ready.”

She raises a single arched eyebrow at me as if to say, move the fuck out of my way, asshole . So I do.

And thus begins day motherfucking two.

“No one needs to know North, South, East, and West! GPS exists for a reason. And if you don’t have GPS, you give location-based directions.”

I don’t answer.

“You know, go past the Sonic. When you see Target, turn left.”

The snort is out before I can stop it. “Do you see a Target out here? Me saying turn left at the tree won’t help you.”

Her lips press into a thin line.

“As far as GPS, you can’t count on always having your phone with you, having service or battery. If you can orient yourself, you can get to where you need to go, no matter where you are.”

She huffs. “And knots? Why do I need to know how to tie a trillion different knots?”

A flash of Blakely tied to my headboard, knots around her delicate wrists, has me reaching to adjust myself as subtly as possible. Clearing my throat, I say, “They each have a different purpose. A taut-line hitch and trucker’s hitch are good for securing shelter. A figure-eight knot can help secure a harness. A?—”

“Okay, Professor Knothead, I get it. Knots are everything.” She throws the rope she’s been fiddling with on the ground.

I try to suppress my annoyance, but I fail. We haven’t even talked about fire starting, plant identification, situational awareness, or shelter building with natural materials. And it isn’t happening today. We’ve been out here for hours—most of that spent orienting her to the cardinal directions. She’s a surprisingly accurate shot with the BB gun, though.

“Can we call it a day, please? This is stupid. I’ll never need to know any of this.”

“So it’s all for show.” There’s more anger in my tone than I mean for her to hear.

She has the good grace to look contrite, her shoulders rising. “No. I mean, yes. Maybe? Would I like to learn these things? Yes. Will I use them down the road? No.”

“Tell you what, Princess.” Heat flares on her face at the nickname she hates, but it’s fucking fitting in this moment. “We’ll call it a day.” My lips tip into a smirk. “If you can navigate us home without using your phone.”

Her pretty mouth drops open before she snaps it shut. She scans the thick band of trees and rocky trails around us. We’re a fifteen-minute walk from the clearing, but I can tell by her demeanor she’s lost.

Crossing her arms, plumping those perfect tits of hers, she says, “I hope you’re prepared to sleep outdoors because I have no idea where we are. The asshole who is supposed to teach me to navigate by the sun and moon or whatever sucks.”

“Only one of us will have a problem sleeping outdoors, and it sure as shit isn’t me.”

With a huff that could knock a pig’s house down, she spits, “At least point me in the right direction.”

It takes forty minutes—forty minutes in which she only speaks to gripe at me. But she’s so damn pleased with herself I don’t have the heart to tell her how badly she did.

There’s another rule broken.

I sip a glass of whiskey and watch Blakely at her makeshift command center talking to Kirk while dinner cooks in the oven. I don’t mean to eavesdrop, but it’s a small fucking cabin. Besides, I only understand half of what they say; the rest sounds like code—stills, trending, streams, sponsorships, branded posts.

Once she finishes, she glances around. I mirror her actions, chuckling to myself. How she demolished the space is beyond me. She’s been here two days, and it looks like a bomb went off in her suitcases—the clothing, shoes, and toiletries scattered like shrapnel.

I’m not such an asshole that I didn’t offer her a drawer in the dresser, but she refuses to use them, opting instead to dig through her bags. Taking another long pull from my glass, I shrug. Her shit, her business. Even if it makes me twitchy.

The little slips of lace especially.

Blakely’s voice pulls me from my panty-laden fantasies. “I’m doing today’s live spot on the porch swing. Want to join me?”

“What, don’t want your adoring fans finding out how much of a slob you are without someone to pick up after you?”

I can just make out her blush under the makeup she’s wearing, but it’s there. Ding, ding, ding. Hit the nail on the head.

“No,” she sniffs. “The porch swing is a more interesting location. They’ve already seen all the inside has to offer.”

“Whatever you say.” I follow her to the porch and plop down on the swing. She’s close enough that I can feel goosebumps arise on her skin when our knees brush. Blakely grabs my bicep, using it as leverage while making herself comfortable. My arm tingles where she touches me, and I keep checking to make sure it isn’t actually trembling.

The swing starts with a soothing sway. For a moment, I pretend this is my real life. Sitting on this porch in the twilight with a gorgeous woman at my side.

Then she turns the goddamn camera on and opens her mouth.

“Hey there, BBs!”

I cringe at her too-high voice, her vapid giggle, her mask, but if Blakely notices, she doesn’t show it.

“Today, I’m coming to you from the porch swing. I know, right? A real-life cabin porch swing. Can you believe it?” She giggles into the lens before panning the open clearing. “Look at this view.”

The way she flips back and forth between herself and the clearing is seamless. It’d be impressive if it weren’t so ridiculous.

“The cabin is amazing— sooo rustic and cozy—but the best part is this porch! Hudson and I have spent hours out here communing with nature and enjoying the fresh air. Say hi to my BBs, Hudson!”

Blakely angles the camera to catch us both, but my face hardens in a frown. As quick as the camera is on me, it’s gone.

“Okay, now that you’ve seen him live, I know you’re drooling. He’s the total package: handsome, good with his hands,” she says, winking into the lens, “and a fantastic teacher. I’ve learned so much from him already. By the end of the month, I’ll probably be able to lead my own wilderness training. And don’t forget, you too can book your next adventure with Peak Adventures when you visit Trail Creek, New Mexico. Keep tuning in for more pictures and updates! Take care, my BBs!”

The livestream ends, and Blakely tosses her phone beside her. I watch as her mask slips away. It’s oddly fascinating, like a snake molting its skin.

“Lead your own training? I’m an amazing teacher? You called me an asshole and said I sucked a couple of hours ago.” I raise both eyebrows and look at where she’s slumped.

She wiggles a bit, then shrugs. “I’m not going to make you look bad.”

“Why not be yourself?”

The confusion and hurt on her face make me wish I could swallow the words. But one thing I’ve gleaned since meeting Blakely, she doesn’t stay sad for long. Her irritation overpowers all other emotions, and I find myself on the wrong end of her tiny pointed finger. Again.

“I am myself. You don’t know me, Hudson. You’ve spent two days with me.”

“Spitfire, I know more than you think. A key part of my job is the ability to observe.”

She scoffs, but I barrel ahead.

“You raise the timbre of your voice and put on this superficial affectation when the camera comes out. You titter like a schoolgirl, and let your IQ drop ten points. You don’t want your so-called fans to see you fail. You don’t want them to see your mess, but that’s the real you. I’ve learned all that in two days.”

Despite the warning bells, I lean in and whisper, “If you drop the armor, what will I know about you in thirty?”

“You want to learn more about me?” Her words are faint, to the point they sweep away with the wind.

I tuck a piece of hair behind her ear. “You’re the most frustrating?—”

She opens her mouth, no doubt ready to verbally smack me, but my hand is there, cupping her chin.

“And fascinating person I’ve ever encountered.”

Her eyes lock on mine, but now they hold a different heat. I curve into her, our lips within inches.

We are close enough for little puffs of her air to slip into my lungs when she speaks. “Do you have any idea how long it’s been since someone wanted to know me? The real me?”

She shuts her eyes and angles her head. Those petal pink lips part. Half an inch more, and I could taste them. My nose brushes hers and…

With a jolt, I slam my feet onto the porch, bringing the swing to a dead stop and bolt into the cabin, leaving a stunned Blakely in my wake.