Roughing It

18. Blakely

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

blakely

DAY SIXTEEN

I wake, curled up in the bed. Our bed. How quickly I’ve come to think of it that way without question. Hudson must’ve carried me in after I fell asleep on the porch. We spent hours out there last night talking.

Well, I talked. He grunted when appropriate.

I opened up to him about the nightmares, the mix of the lake and ugliness from my socials. It helped. Last night’s dream was much more interesting.

My neck tingles with the heat of Hudson’s stare. With a stretch, I roll onto my side, and sure enough, he’s awake and watching me.

“Good morning, creeper.”

He gathers my hands in his and presses a chaste kiss against my knuckles. “Mornin’.”

“You didn’t deny it.”

Hudson raises one dark eyebrow. “What?”

“That you’re a creeper. It’s fine. I like that in a partner.” Grinning, I rub the tip of my cold nose against his chest and dig my icy toes into the meat of his thigh.

“How can you be so damn cold all the time?” He complains but pulls me closer.

Ignoring him, I say, “I had a dream about the Trail Creek settlers last night.”

“Better than the nightmares.”

I nod and wriggle until I’m in his lap. “I was in the bed dying, but instead of wilting away, I grew angrier every day my husband was gone. And when you—” Shit. Maybe he didn’t catch that. “When he finally showed up with the fruit, I smashed it in his face.”

Hudson snorts. “Sounds exactly like you.”

A mischievous smile tugs at my lips, and I lean forward, giving his collarbone a nibble. “After I shoved the fruit in his face, I had to clean it off. I couldn’t leave him all messy.” I kiss and suck along the length of Hudson’s neck.

“So you dream of me?”

I freeze; I knew it was too much to hope he would miss that. “The man in my dream did look a lot like you. Only more handsome.”

“Brat.” He shudders as I slowly roll my hips and grind against him.

“Aw, don’t be mean. Open your mouth for me. Let me show you what happened next.” I lick along the seam of his full lips, and when he opens, I suck his tongue, relishing the groan that escapes his throat.

My hips rock against his, building that exquisite tingle between my legs with each roll. But before we can go any further, my phone buzzes.

Hudson grunts in annoyance and buries his face in the crook of my neck. “I hate that fucking thing.”

“I have to take this. It’s Kirk. ”

Hudson doesn’t answer; he just slides out from under me. I frown at his retreating back, then huff and fling myself back into the pillows before stabbing the answer button.

“What.”

“Good morning to you, too, BB.”

“Sorry. You have terrible timing.”

Kirk gives me an apologetic grin. “I would have waited for you to call me, but the hubs surprised me with a few days away, and apparently, we’re leaving in an hour.”

Marcus hollers in the background, telling Kirk to say hi to me and to hurry the hell up. I grin. These two are couple goals.

“He’s forbidding me from working while on vacation.” With a roll of his eyes, Kirk continues. “I didn’t want you to think I ghosted you.”

“You’d never!”

“Of course, I wouldn’t. Everyone knows you’re my favorite. How are you?”

“I’m good. I promise.” I’m surprised to find I mean it. You won’t catch me on the lake anytime soon, and I’m avoiding comments, but each day that passes brings a new sense of peace.

He smiles, then slips into work mode. “What’s on the agenda for the next few days?”

“I’m not sure. Hudson plans things, but I don’t find out until he springs them on me.”

“Okay, keep up what you’ve been doing.” He shifts. “You have two weeks to go, but I’ve already taken care of the arrangements for your pickup and departure from Trail Creek. When I get back from Seattle, we can talk specifics.”

And just like that, Kirk punctures my rising happiness balloon. Pain, sharp and jagged, tears through my stomach and up into my chest at the thought of being without my Bear. Two weeks. Travel plans. Going back .

The fake friends. My lonely apartment. No Hudson.

I sit, silent and unblinking, until the weight shifts on the bed. “She’s learning how to shoot a bow and arrow.”

Grasping the distraction Hudson tossed my way, I ask, “I am?”

“Yep. Gotta make sure you learn as many skills as possible before you,” he pauses, a series of emotions flickering over his face, “leave.”

Frustration. Sadness. Wanting. I know because they’re mirrored on my own.

Kirk studies me through the camera. “BB?”

Forcing a smile, I chirp. “Yeah, sorry. I’m so jealous of you and Marcus. Have fun!” With a wave and an air kiss, I end the call.

The shift in the mood is noticeable. Hudson stares up at the ceiling, his brows knitted together, lost in thought. My throat stings. I need to touch him. Scooting closer, I rest my cheek on his chest, tracing the veins in his forearm. A rumbly sigh reverberates beneath my ear, and I smile. I love how Hudson reacts to my touch—even from glancing grazes like walking my fingers over his skin.

And it’s the same for me. The heat of those pine-green eyes sends shivers down my spine, increases my heart rate, and makes me wet. I wonder, not for the first time, how someone I’ve known for sixteen days—and liked for less—can make me feel this way. My stomach aches at the idea of going back to Austin. I don’t want to think about the car coming for me in two weeks. About the choices I have to make. About what I’ll be giving up.

Instead, I turn my face into Hudson’s broad chest, inhaling his earthy scent and pretending I don’t have any worries. “So, shooting a bow, huh? ”

“Yep.” His heavy hand settles on my head, stroking my hair.

“Not at anything, though, right?”

“Stationary targets.”

“I think I can handle that.”

We linger a little longer before Hudson gently shifts me and gets off the bed. “We leave in ten.”

On my side of the cabin, or at least where all my clothes, shoes, and assorted bric-à-brac lie, I search for something to wear. But my mind wanders, and I call to Hudson. “What’s Trail Creek like?”

He pokes his head out of the bathroom, toothbrush in his mouth. “Huh?”

“Trail Creek. How big is it?”

“Um, around nineteen hundred people live here year round.”

So around the same size as Hawthorn. I scowl at my clothes as if they’ve offended me.

“But it triples in the winter and summer thanks to vacationers. Why?” Hudson leans against the door, the toothbrush gone.

“Just curious.” I slip a sweatshirt over my head and attempt to pad past him. He stops me, his thumb brushing my cheek.

“What’s in your head?”

“Thinking of all the arrows I’m going to let fly,” I lie. I’m not about to tell him the thought of living in a town this small freaks me the fuck out or that I asked because, for a second there, I let myself pretend I could stay.

I shake my head and smile. Now’s not the time. I offer him my hand. “Ready?”

He studies me, nods, and laces our fingers together.

Pushing all thoughts of leaving and Austin out of my head, I let Hudson lead me on today’s adventure.

“Hey there, BBs! Can you believe my adventure in Trail Creek is halfway over? It’s day sixteen, which means Hudson and I are down to two weeks together. We’ve seen your questions about what we have planned for after, but we aren’t ready to share yet.”

Hudson grunts from off-camera, and I glance at him. I know how much he dislikes the “Blakely Show” despite agreeing to be a part of it. The more time I spend with him, the more my social media persona feels like the mask he accused me of hiding behind. A mask that stifles and suffocates me more each day.

While I wasn’t exactly happy before Hudson, at least the job was simple. Giggle, be quippy, say something outrageous. Now, it feels like work, like precious moments away from getting to know him, being with him. Like the thing that’s going to take me away from him.

I remember how belligerent and defiant I’d been when he first called me out about my behavior on camera. How I’d claimed there was no difference in my off-screen and on-screen personalities. But in my heart, I knew he was right all along.

The reflection I saw in the mirror today wasn’t one I hated even as I examined each tiny wrinkle around my eyes and scrutinized my untamed waves. Could I be this person always? This woman who wears makeup when and because she wants to, doesn’t care if her hair is perfectly smooth, isn’t afraid of what everyone else thinks. Is there room for Blake Lee Shaw in Blakely Bradshaw’s world?

Clearing my throat, I pack all the heavy away. “What I mean is Hudson and I haven’t discussed what we’ll do when our time here ends. We’re still learning about each other, and it’s too soon for us to make a long-term decision. But let’s not focus on that. Why, you may ask? Because today I’m shooting a freaking bow and arrow! How badass is that?” I flex my arms for the camera. “Hudson assures me I’ll be able to hit a bullseye when he’s done teaching me. You’ve got to love a sexy man with confidence!” I wink into the camera and wiggle my eyebrows suggestively.

Hudson leans against his Jeep, looking every bit the forest god he is. The morning sun casts him in a golden halo, caramel hints glimmering in his hair and beard. I’m taken over by the urge to run my fingers through, and I fight to stop from running to him. His dark green eyes scan me as if he’s seen me from the inside out—which, to be fair, he has.

Heat pools in my stomach as memories of our lovemaking crash over me.

A smug look flits across his face, and he mouths, “ Say something, ” throwing the words I’ve said to him so many times back at me.

“Sorry, BBs, I spaced out for a moment.” I giggle into the lens. “I was staring at Hudson!” I turn the camera on my cabin mate before holding it up to put myself in frame. “Who can blame me, though?”

Behind me, Hudson grunts before narrowing his eyes at me. “It’ll cement my reputation as the best when I show Blakely how to shoot an arrow accurately.”

Closing the gap between us, I grin. “Alright, BBs! I’m taking a quick break to set up the camera so you can watch as I become an expert markswoman! ”

Next to me, Hudson snorts. Rude.

We’re in an open space, tall pines ringing around us. Sunlight peaks through the boughs of the trees, and there’s a chill in the air. November is nearly here. While I set up my tripod and the shotgun mic, Hudson grabs two bows and a quiver of arrows.

“Wait, I need to check the framing,” I holler, not wanting to miss his first shot.

Taking stock of the targets on the far side of the clearing, I check that everything is in view. Then I do a quick audio test, and it’s time to go live.

“Hey, BBs! Welcome back. Hudson is going to give us a quick demonstration. Who’s ready?” Hearts float over the screen, and I grin. For all my ups and downs about social media, I can’t deny the buzz I get when things are going well. Maybe someday I’ll be enough on my own…

Nope. Already decided I’m not traveling down that twisty road today.

“Blakely?” Hudson is watching me, his brow creasing with concern.

“Do your thing, Bear.”

At my prodding, Hudson sheds his flannel, leaving him in a tight white tee. He smoothly draws an arrow and holds it to the string. There’s a soft twang followed by a solid thunk, and there in the center of the target is the arrow.

So. Stinking. Sexy.

He does it again; this time, I focus on the ripple of muscles in his back and the tension in his arms. My only exposure to archery is from my crush on Robin Hood—the cartoon fox version—but I’m quickly gaining a new appreciation.

I don’t bother checking my phone. People are watching. Hudson Brooks is magnetic. An outdoor master. And seeing him here—all powerful thighs, broad chest, dark hair blowing in the breeze—is like having a religious experience. Consider me a convert.

Whew. Okay. I can totally do this. Shaking out my arms and legs, I grab the spare bow.

“Do you want?—”

“I’ve got this, Bear,” I say with a grin, snagging an arrow from the quiver.

I so do not have it.

To start, I can’t get the arrow on the bowstring. It keeps falling off. It takes three attempts and a stomped foot before I discover the little slit on the bottom of the non-pointy end of the arrow.

With my bow strung, I’m ready to wow him. The first arrow lands approximately two feet away from me. The second ends up behind me. And the third stops inches from Hudson’s foot, where he stands next to my phone.

“Careful, Spitfire.”

I duck my head and grab another arrow. “I need practice.”

“Practice? I think you need learning.”

“Isn’t that what you’re here for?” My temper flares, and I snap sharper than I mean.

Hudson narrows his eyes and crosses his arms. In a terrible impression, he throws my words back at me. “I’ve got this, Bear.”

Glaring right back, I stare for what feels like a lifetime. “Ugh! Fine. I need your help.”

For a second, I think he’s going to ignore me, but then a slow smile—one that rivals the sun—breaks out on his face. “Let’s start from the beginning. Stance, your feet should be shoulder width apart and ninety degrees to the target. Think of a T-shape.” As he speaks, he positions my body, his large hands clutching my hips to angle me just so.

“Then use the nock to settle the arrow on the string. It should fit snugly there to keep it from falling out.”

“Yeah, I figured that out,” I grumble.

Disregarding my attitude, Hudson goes on, “Next is your grip; you want it to be relaxed. You’re holding it too tight.” He wrenches my hips against his and into my ear, whispers, “I know you have excellent grip control.”

I jerk my head at his words, eyes darting toward my phone.

Using his index finger and thumb, Hudson guides my chin toward the targets. Then he once again brushes his mouth to my ear. “Now, let’s talk about finger position. Any thoughts on that?” One hand creeps from my hip to my inner thigh, and I shudder against him.

A small whimper escapes me. “Hudson, we’re on camera.”

“We aren’t. I ended it.”

“What?”

“This is for us.” His fingers inch closer to the growing wetness between my legs.

“Hudson, you can’t turn off the live!”

“I couldn’t stand here watching you and not touch. You’re so fucking gorgeous. These sexy waves blowing in the wind, your cheeks pink, and your eyes alive. Plus, your tight little ass in these leggings.” He groans, and his hand skims over my pussy; the heat of his touch seeps through the thin material.

I give an involuntary shudder, and my hips press forward. Seeking. “I need to d-do the live. And I’ll n-never learn like this,” I whimper, trying to grind against his palm.

He nips my ear and sighs. “You win. I’ll behave.” With a huff, he stalks to my phone and brings it to me.

What’s gotten into him? Is Kirk’s reminder about our looming deadline weighing on him, too? Fourteen days has never seemed like so little time .

Fixing my smile and fidgeting in my wet panties, I sign back on. “Sorry, BBs. Technical difficulties! But we’re back.”

I jog the phone over to the tripod, then hustle to Hudson.

He clears his throat and directs me loud enough for the microphone to hear. “Position your fingers on the string, letting the tip rest in the ‘V’ of your thumb and index finger. Then place your index, middle, and ring fingers below it.” He takes the time to turn me towards the lens so those following the livestream can view the position of my hands.

“Now you’re ready to draw. Bring your elbow to the corner of your mouth. Don’t clench the arrow. Pull the string using your back muscles, not your arms.”

He runs his fingertips over the nape of my neck, and I accidentally let go. This arrow flies further than the others but still falls far short of the target.

“Try again.” He helps me restring and reset my placement. “Breathe. Relax.”

Those two words conjure up a variety of scenarios in my dirty mind, and I fumble my hold.

“Focus, Blakely.” His whiskey-soaked voice curls in my ear.

I get back into position, and this time, when he tells me to take a deep breath and stare down the arrow, focusing on the target, I do.

“Now, release.”

It soars through the air, narrowly missing the target.

“Shake it off. You’re getting closer.”

Hudson corrects my stance and adjusts my grip. He guides my elbow higher and says, “Breathe, focus, release.”

The arrow lands on the target with a thud . It isn’t a bullseye, but it’s a hit. I drop the bow, jumping and squealing in excitement.

“BBs! Did you see that? I hit the target!” Sprinting toward the camera, I pick it up and race across the clearing to get a close-up of my arrow wedged into the target. “I’m going to practice more, so keep your eyes peeled for photos later today.”

Once the livestream ends, I launch myself into Hudson’s arms. “I did it! I hit the target,” I squeal as I pepper kisses over his cheeks and lips.

“You sure did. Proud of you.” A playful glint lights up his eyes. “Now, where were we in our lesson?”

During our “hands-on” lesson, I came. Twice. We spent hours shooting, and I even hit the center target—something I bragged about on the entire ride to the cabin.

Now, I’m on the ground between Hudson’s legs while his large, calloused hands work out the aches in my arms, shoulders, and back. I used muscles I didn’t know I had today, and my body is not happy about it.

As Hudson kneads a tough knot in my upper back, I sip a glass of whiskey, my throat burning as the alcohol slides down, spreading its heat. The fire crackles, filling the cabin with warmth and comfortable background noise. Goddammit. I could get used to this life.

But no matter how many hands-on lessons Hudson gives me, I can’t keep pretending time isn’t real.

DAY SEVENTEEN

I wake the next morning—after another nightmare-free night—fingers itching to shoot again. Can I tie a good knot yet? No. Can I tell my north from my east yet? Nope. Can I build a fire using wood scraps and brush? Not even close.

But I can shoot a motherfucking arrow. Okay, that makes me sound like more of a badass than I am, but still, I’m proud of myself. This is one of the only things Hudson has taught me that I haven’t messed up. I guess I didn’t do anything terrible during our foraging trip except eat that disgusting chokecherry raw. But everything else, even fishing— especially fishing —has been a disaster.

“What’s on your mind?” Hudson’s deep voice startles me.

How am I supposed to go back to sleeping alone? Who’s going to care about me? What will I do when I’m sitting in my apartment surrounded by people but more lonely than before? What happens if I stay?

But of course, I don’t say any of that. Instead, I snuggle into his arms and bury my nose in the crook of his neck. He smells so good. Like fresh air and pine trees and something spicy. “Can we shoot again?”

“How are your muscles?”

I stretch, rubbing against him like a cat. “Not bad, actually. Your fingers are magic in more ways than one.”

“And,” he swallows, “how are you feeling about what Kirk said? About having your trip back to Austin planned.”

“Like I don’t want to talk about it.” I lift my head, resting my chin on his stomach. “You?”

He grunts. “Same.”

Avoidance, table for two. It’s a weird web we’ve woven for ourselves. I’m drawn to Hudson, to his grumpy personality that protects a gentle heart. To his adorable freckles that soften his rugged beauty. To the safety of his hold and the heat of his touch. But the massive clock counting down above our heads reminds me this can never be more than a fling.

Fling . I wrinkle my nose and mentally toss that word away. Hudson Brooks is no fling. He’s a deep well you fall into and hope you never find your way out of.

Thick fingers wind in my hair. “We have to talk, eventually.”

“Eventually,” I agree. Then I blow a raspberry above his happy trail and scramble off the bed before he can retaliate by tickling me. “But for now, let’s go shoot some targets.”

We arrive back in the clearing from yesterday, and Hudson staggers the distance of two of the targets while I stretch.

“Do you remember your steps?”

“Yes, Hudson, it was twenty-four hours ago,” I sniff, pouting at him.

“Considering what a disaster your first attempt was...”

Glaring, I spin, grab the bow, and notch the arrow. Then I repeat the mantra he taught me: “Breathe, focus, release.”

The arrow flies from my bow and hits the target with a solid thud. I make my best told you so face.

“Before you get too proud, can you hit it twice?”

I toss my hair. “Of course I can. Just watch.”

Again, I go through all the steps, checking my position and body angle. The arrow flies in a perfect line and distance, hitting the target.

“In your smug, adorable face!” I dance around, arms over my head.

Hudson rolls his eyes. “Yes, you’re practically the goddess of the hunt.”

“Hmmm… I like that comparison.” I wink and stand with my feet wide, hands on my hips. “Will you worship me as befitting a goddess?”

With a snort, he says, “String up your next shot. You’re hitting the target, but the goal is the center.”

“Mind how you speak to me, mortal.”

I’m going through my steps when Hudson jogs by and smacks me on the ass, the firm clap of his palm making me jolt. My body automatically turns, following his.

And I release the arrow.

It’s like slow motion. The arrow leaves the bow, cutting through the short distance between us. I scream as the broadhead nicks Hudson’s arm, ripping his flannel shirt and leaving a thin rivulet of blood.

Holy fucking shit. I shot him.

“Hudson! Are you okay?” I drop my bow and rush to him.

He stares at me. Is he in shock? My eyes dart around the clearing. Can I get us home from here? Which way is fucking north? Did he teach me about plants that can staunch wounds? Crap. I can’t remember anything.

Then I hear Hudson’s loud, rumbly laugh. “Spitfire, you shot me.”

“I didn’t shoot you! Well, I did, but not on purpose! You spanked me, and I… are you okay?”

“I’m fine. It’s just a scrape.” He rotates his arm, inspecting the wound, and grins. “Tis but a flesh wound.”

He must not feel too bad if he’s making Monty Python references, but still. I. Shot. Him.

As close as he was, it could have been much, much worse. What would I do if something happened to him?

Wrapping my arms around his shoulders, I cringe when he winces. “I’m sorry. So sorry.”

“Blakely.”

My eyes blur as blood wells on his bicep. I did that to him. I hurt him. And I’m going to be trapped out here because I can’t learn the things he’s trying to teach me. How can I be so bad at all this?

“Blakely! Stop.” Hudson hugs me tight. “Breathe.”

I match the rhythm of my chest to his until my heart isn’t pounding in my throat .

“Shit, baby. You look worse than me, and I’m the one who was attacked.”

“That’s not funny! I hurt you.”

“No, you didn’t. And it was my fault. I shouldn’t have spanked you.” He frowns. “I’m thirty-five, and I’ve been doing expeditions professionally for close to fifteen years, but in the last seventeen days, I’ve made more mistakes than ever.”

Does he mean me? Am I the mistake?

His arms tighten. “Mistakes like flirting with you while you have a sharp object in your hand. I swear, I turn into a complete idiot around you.”

Resting my head over his heart, I murmur, “Not a complete idiot. Just a partial one.”

He chuckles, then lifts my chin so our eyes meet. “That’s a wrap on shooting for today.”

A laugh bubbles from the back of my throat. “Agreed.” Slipping from his arms, I gather all our supplies and load them into the back of the Jeep. Then I hold out my hand. “Give me the keys.”

“No.”

“Hudson, you’re in no shape to drive.”

He laughs like I’ve cracked a fantastic joke but stops when he sees my hand is out, waiting.

“Blakely, this isn’t any worse than a hangnail.”

“You got shot. By me. The least I can do is drive us back.”

“If you drive like you shoot, I’ll take my chances behind the wheel.”

“Stop being so stubborn, and hand over the damn keys!”

My infuriating, gorgeous outdoorsman gives me a panty-melting smirk. “I sure do like your bossy side, you beautiful brat.”

Our mouths crash, mine frantic, his dominating. The kiss is us. Messy, combative, hot, raw. We don’t break apart until my lips tingle and my mind is a haze of lust.

It isn’t until we’re halfway home that I realize I’m in the passenger seat. This man has a powerful hold on me, and I have no idea what I’m going to do when our time together ends.