by Tawna Fenske
I blush with the compliment, delighted with myself for trying something new. “Sorry for being such a dork,” I tell him. “I never thought I’d fire a gun.”
“And here you are,” he says. “I love seeing you try new stuff. Push past your fears and just go for it.”
“Thanks.” I love that he gets it. That he understands what a big deal this is.
He studies my face for a long time. There’s still humor in his eyes, but there’s something else. Something I can’t quite read.
When he speaks again, his voice is low. “Look, there’s something I feel like I should tell you.”
“What?” I ask. “What is it?”
“It’s just—well, you’ve been so awesome with sharing stuff,” he says. “Personal stuff about your childhood and your fears and all that. I’ve never been around anyone who’s so open.”
I smile, though my heart’s speeding up. What is this about? “I’m not really good at hiding things.”
“I know, and I love that about you.” He stops himself, raking a hand through his hair. “I’m not like that. Not usually. But there’s something I’m a little ashamed about, and I’m realizing I kinda want you to know, so—”
The shrug he gives me is self-conscious and unsure, but my mind is racing a million miles a second. Shit, he’s got a girlfriend. Or he’s married. Or he has—
“Dyscalculia,” he says softly.
I blink, not sure I’ve heard right. “Dyscalculia?”
He nods slowly, and there’s a nakedness in his eyes that makes something unspool in my gut. “It’s a learning disability,” he says. “It affects how someone understands number-related concepts. Lots of people with dyscalculia can’t do basic arithmetic—addition, subtraction, multiplication. Some never figure out how to tell time or make change or do a million other things that most folks take for granted.”
I stare into his eyes, absorbing his words, taking it all in. “And you have—dyscalculia?”
He nods, unblinking. He’s gauging my reaction. “Yes.”
“I’m sorry.” I reach up and touch his forearm without thinking. “I had no idea. That must be hard.”
“It can be.” He clears his throat, and the color filling in beneath his sandy stubble is a sign how uncomfortable he is. But he keeps going. “I was diagnosed in middle school, so that helped. Knowing what it was, at least.”
“Could they make accommodations for you? Let you use calculators on tests or something. I had a friend with dyslexia who—”
“No,” he says quickly. “I didn’t want accommodations. I didn’t want to be different. To have everyone thinking I was too dumb to do it on my own.”
“You are not dumb.” The force of my own words surprises me, but it’s true. And it all makes sense now. The terror I saw in his eyes at the cupcake shop when Chelsea asked him about quantities. His look of sheer terror when I rattled off gun calibers.
This is where his fear stems from. His absolute terror of humiliation.
And he’s willing to share it with me. He wants to share, to have me see the whole picture of him. My heart balloons in the center of my chest, and I reach out to touch his arm. “You are one of the least dumb people I’ve ever met,” I tell him. “Truly. The way you read people. The way you got me through that chairlift ride or solved the eggnog problem or figured out how to get the mistletoe. All of that takes an unbelievable amount of cleverness.”
“Well, I’m not exactly a rocket scientist.” He tries to laugh but it comes out a little shaky. “I will never be above about a third-grade level with math.”
He’s watching my face, gauging the impact of his words. If this is a test, I’m not sure what the answer’s supposed to be.
But I know what I’m feeling.
“Josh.” I step closer, needing him to hear me, to understand. I touch the side of his face, palming the rough stubble so he can’t look away from me. “You’re amazing. Seriously, I’m in awe of you.”
His brows furrow in confusion. “You’re not freaked out about this?”
The fact that he thinks I would be makes me wonder about his childhood traumas. About his own abandoned-in-the-forest stories, metaphorically speaking.
“You’re amazing,” I tell him. “I’m just thinking about all the things in life that require math—balancing a budget, measuring a space for furniture, telling time—and you’ve managed to run a business?”
He’s studying my face like he’s sure I’m making fun of him. I’m not; I swear to God, I’m impressed as hell.
“You really mean that,” he says slowly. “I’ve just told you I’m a fucking moron—”
“You are not a moron.” I can’t believe how fierce I sound, but I like it. “Your brain works differently from my brain, or from a lot of other people’s brains, but that does not make you a moron. It makes you brave.”
“Brave,” he repeats like I’m speaking Swahili.
“Brave,” I insist. “And strong and creative and all kinds of other things I can’t imagine having to be every single day. Christ, I can’t imagine the courage it takes to—”
That’s all I get out.
Because he’s suddenly kissing me, kissing me hard and deep and with the kind of passion my sister swore was reserved for lusty teenagers.
But Josh is no teenager. He doesn’t break the kiss as he pushes me back against a tree and strokes my tongue with his. I kiss back, breathless and hungry and not quite sure what’s happening. All I know is that I want it to keep happening.
His hands slide around my back and cup my ass, pressing me against him. The hardness I feel in his jeans is definitely not mistletoe, and I grind against it like some kind of floozy, remembering what my sister said on the phone.
“When you’re eighteen, it’s all hormones and lust and raw, carnal attraction.”
I’m way past eighteen, and I’ve never experienced this before. This dizzying breathlessness, this desperate need to touch another person. I’m so hungry for him that I’m moaning against his mouth.
“Val.” Josh breaks the kiss and starts moving down my throat. His lips are achingly soft, and the scratch of stubble is such a delicious contrast that I clench my fingers in his hair.
I tip my head back against the tree and close my eyes, melting into the heat of his kisses. The pleasure leaves me dizzy, or maybe that’s the crazy way I’m breathing. Like I can’t get enough air. I open my eyes and blink up at the bright blue sky, the canopy of tree branches, and another cluster of mistletoe right above us.
“Don’t stop,” I murmur. “Please, don’t stop.”
“Valerie.” He growls my name against my collarbone, erasing any question if he knows who he’s kissing. Not Gabrielle, not Vanessa, me. Unexciting, unadventurous, overly-cautious Valerie.
But I’m none of those things right now with my spine pressed to the tree and sun streaming in my hair and Josh’s hands sliding up my back. I feel powerful, invincible, courageous.
I feel…itchy?
“Ow.”
Josh jerks back. “I’m sorry. I’ll stop.”
“No, it’s not you.” I glance down at about two-dozen red-black dots marching their way up my leg. “Um, do you have fire ants here?”
“Fire ants?” He looks down and blanches. “Oh, Jesus.”
And that’s when I realize we’re standing on a freakin’ anthill. One of those huge mounds with zillions of bitey, pinchy little red-black insects swarming up our legs.
“Hurry, quick! Into the creek.” Josh grabs my hand because, apparently, I’m still standing like a big goober with ants swarming up my legs. “Come on.”
I stumble after him, swatting at my legs and stomach and—how the hell did they get all the way up my arms without me noticing?
“We don’t have fire ants here,” Josh says as he strips off his shirt. Holy cow, he’s got bugs all over. “Thatching ants.” There go his shorts, and ohmygod, the man is ripped. “Val, hurry. Your clothes are covered.”
I clos
e my mouth and stop gaping at him, spurred into action by another pinch right below my left butt cheek. Good Lord, they’re everywhere.
“What the hell are thatching ants?” I strip off my shirt, fully aware that this is a far cry from how I’d hoped to be shucking clothes not five minutes ago.
“Their bite hurts like a mofo, since they spray formic acid.” There go his boxer briefs, as he stumbles into the creek wearing nothing but his boots. He bends down to scoop handfuls of water, washing the insects off his body.
I can’t stop staring, but somehow I manage to shuck my shorts and stumble my way into the water beside him. Josh stops sluicing water down his own body and starts on me. “They’re all over your arms. I can’t believe we didn’t feel this.”
“I might have been distracted by other feelings.”
He laughs, then winces. “Fuck, there’s one in my sock.”
Peeling his hands off my body, he bends down and yanks at the edge of his boot. That gives me a chance to survey the broad expanse of his back, the ripples of muscles in his shoulders. I know I should be freaking out about the damn bugs, but I can’t stop devouring this man with my eyes.
“Ow.” Another bite on my left boob forces me to abandon my obsession, along with the hope of hanging on to my underwear. I unclasp my bra and toss it, then swat my boobs like they insulted my mother. This is not how I saw my romantic woodsy date unfolding.
This is soooo not sexy, but when Josh looks up, there’s heat in his eyes. “You have the most perfect breasts I’ve seen in my life.”
His words are so sincere, I laugh. It’s either that or cry or throw myself at him or a million other things I want to do right now that make no sense at all. Now that I’ve tasted this Dairy Queen Blizzard of emotions, I can’t fathom living without it.
Minus the ants.
“Are we going to get sick?” I swat at something that looks like an ant but turns out to be a piece of leaf. “Like with snakebites or scorpion stings?”
“No.” He’s still staring at my breasts, and his blue eyes have gone a shade darker. “The bites can blister if you don’t wash them right away, but we’ve covered that.”
And I should probably cover myself now, right?
I’m standing ankle deep in a creek wearing nothing but pink cotton panties next to a demigod whose impressive erection I’m trying not to notice. I should be mortified. I should be grabbing my clothes. I should be—
“I want to touch you.” These are the five bravest words I’ve ever said in my life, and I can’t believe I’ve just uttered them.
A slow smile spreads over Josh’s face. “Your timing leaves something to be desired.” He steps closer, closing the distance between our bodies. “But touch away.”
I don’t hesitate at all. I draw my hands to his chest, dragging my fingers down his abdomen like I’m memorizing every ripple of muscle, every inch of goose-bumpy flesh. Feeling bold, I run my hands over his hips, stifling a moan as my palms graze the rough-soft fur at the tops of his thighs. Glancing down, I see he’s liking this a lot. At least part of him is.
“Can I—” His voice cracks, and he tries again. “Can I touch you?”
I nod, then step forward to press myself against him. I shiver, but it’s not from the cold creek water. It’s the fact that I’m nearly naked, pressed against the most perfect body I’ve ever laid hands on, and I’m not afraid. Not one little bit.
“God, Val.” His hands move up my ribs to cup my breasts, and he lowers his face to them. Slowly, expertly, he draws one nipple into his mouth.
“Oh, Jesus.” I’m gripping his hair again, but this time it’s damp from sweat and creek water and the wetness in my palms.
There’s liquid heat between my thighs, too, and I squirm against him, desperate for the relief of friction between us. I’ve never had sex outside or been with anyone I’ve known for such a short time, but those two things I want more than anything else now.
“We should stop.” Josh comes up for air, looking as dazed as I feel. “Or at least get out of this creek.”
I nod, even though the last thing I want is to stop. In the real world, I’d never have the balls to say that.
“I don’t want to stop.” My voice is nearly unrecognizable, but the words are all mine. “I want you, Josh. Please.”
He holds my gaze with his, and the heat in his eyes matches what’s burning in my chest. “If you’re sure.”
“Positive.”
The sound he makes is somewhere between a prayer and a moan as he scoops me into his arms and carries me out of the creek. He’s heading for his backpack, which thank the good Lord he dropped far from the mounded ant hill. How did we miss that before?
“I’ve got a blanket in my pack,” he’s saying. “Or we can be back at the resort in thirty minutes.”
Can I wait that long? I’m honestly not sure. I’m also not sure my legs will hold me as he sets me back on my feet and fumbles through his pack. “I—uh—I’m not sure I have a condom.”
Pride blooms in the center of my belly. “I do.”
“Really?” There’s awe in his gaze, and I feel a bit like a geisha.
“You’ve still got my purse, right?” It’s a practical little clutch I stuffed in his pack right before we got out of his truck, and I can’t believe there’s actually a condom in there. That I was ballsy enough to consider the possibility I’d need one.
Josh is still looking at me with amazement in his eyes, so I have to confess. “Vanessa gave it to me,” I admit. “Right when she dropped me at the airport. She probably meant it as a joke but—”
“We don’t need to talk about your sister,” he says. “All I care about is that you’re here, and I’m here, and we have a condom between us, and if no one changes their mind, I’m going to be inside you in the next fifteen minutes.”
“Fifteen?” My voice comes out high and breathless. “Why so long?”
Josh grins and hands me the clutch. “Find the condom.”
I unzip the pouch with shaking hands as Josh skims his hands over my breasts. He lowers his mouth to my throat, kissing his way across my shoulder as I slide my hand into the purse. My phone starts to vibrate, then blasts the familiar ringtone. It’s ABBA’s “Dancing Queen,” and I know damn well who that is.
I yank out the phone, hurrying to silence it. But somehow my touch registers as a swipe or a squeeze or whatever the hell answers a call.
“Hello?” Vanessa’s voice blasts between us like a shout. “Val, is that you?”
Josh and I stare dumbfounded at the screen. I look down, contemplating switching it off and pretending this never happened.
“You and that crappy phone,” she continues. “If you can hear me, I’m in your cabin. Well, the cabin we’re sharing. Bree let me in and—”
“What?” I grip the phone tight, positive I’ve heard wrong. “You’re here already? At Ponderosa?”
I look up at Josh, positive the horror in his eyes matches whatever’s printed on my face as my sister’s voice bursts between us again.
“Surprise!”
Chapter 6
JOSH
“I’m so sorry about this.”
Valerie smooths her fingers over her hair, trying desperately to pat it into a style that doesn’t scream “had sex in the forest.”
Make that almost had sex.
“She’d mentioned changing their flights if Raleigh could get away early, but I didn’t think it would happen,” she’s saying. “He never takes extra time off work.”
“Val, it’s okay.” Ignoring the tiny pinch of jealousy at her familiarity with Raleigh’s work habits, I reach over and put a hand on her bare knee. It’s blessedly free from thatching ant blisters, which means I got us into the creek fast enough.
If only we’d stayed there, groping and touching and kissing in the ankle-deep water. We might never have heard the phone, and even if we had, there’s no way we’d have answered.
“Do you feel ready for this?”
&n
bsp; Her question shakes me from my sex-tinged fantasy, and it takes a second to figure out what she’s asking. “Ready to face your sister, you mean?”
“Right. I mean, in light of—” She makes an odd little hand gesture, an improvised sign language for what happened between her twin and me. “You haven’t seen her since—”
“I’m over it,” I promise before she can invent another hand gesture. “I swear.”
I’ve got my eyes on the road, but I can feel her watching me. “You were pretty worked up when we met last week.”
Was that really last week? I feel like I’ve known Val for ages. Like we’ve been laughing and kissing and groping for years instead of a little more than a week.
“Look, things with your sister—” I stop, hating that this sounds like a comparison. There’s no comparing what I have with Val and that long-ago high school fling. “The way I reacted last week, that wasn’t about some deep, undying love for Vanessa.”
“What was it?”
I glance over to see her giving me that earnest, brown-eyed look that leaves me simultaneously exposed and protected. “I felt stupid,” I admit. “I spent months—years, I guess—kicking myself over how dumb I was. The whole thing kept spiraling until it had nothing at all to do with Gabr—with Vanessa.”
She nods, reaching across the cab to put a hand on my knee. “That makes sense,” she says. “Especially considering everything you’ve gone through with the dyscalculia.”
I love that she names it. That she doesn’t call it “your disability” or “your little problem” the way my mother used to. That she doesn’t jeer the way my father did.
It’s not lost on me that my old man cut and run just a month after the diagnosis.
That’s one reason I stopped telling anyone about it. That otherness, that red-flagged difference between me and everyone else, it was humiliating.
I just wanted to be normal.
“Thanks.” I smile and give her hand a squeeze before returning mine to the wheel and making the turn through the gates to Ponderosa Resort. “Are you ready for this?”