Furthermore, I’m a grown-up who knows that sometimes, often, jobs come before lust. And I haven’t forgotten she’s here to do a job. That I was doing my job, earlier, when I shut her down—or when I relented and gave her access again.
She’s working here, in Colorado.
But she’s not working here, in this room. I suddenly know this as an absolute truth. I know this as a man, and I realize…this is one of those rare times when lust comes before the job, when it’s worth risking everything for a taste.
This woman wants to expose me as something I’m not, and in the process might expose things that I am, of which she—and the rest of the world—are currently unaware. I shouldn’t be attracted to her.
And yet I am.
I should be wary. I should misdirect her.
But if I want a taste…
Fuck. My noble sensibilities will be the death of me. “We probably should talk,” I finally say. That’s the truth.
“Can we do that after dinner?” She gives me an earnest look, and I choose to read it as, don’t do this. Don’t say that we can’t…eat, flirt, look, want, yearn. And since that’s all I’m choosing to read it as—no mention of touching, kissing, tasting, taking—then we’re fine.
“Yeah.”
Her earnest expression lights up with another sly smile. Curious, confident, and committed—to both getting her story, and God willing, getting her man. Or at least I can dream. And she stokes that fantasy, too, maybe unwittingly. Her eyes soften. “We’ll get there, Marcus.”
CHAPTER 6
Poppy
I’M NOT sure when the day shifted, but at some point, I went from warily thinking that Marcus was definitely a creepy pervert, to cautiously hoping he might be a delightful pervert—a thought which shocks the heck out of me.
There’s no room in this trip for delightful anything, so I really need to shut down the flirting.
Do I shut it down, though? Nope. I promise we can resume it later. What the eff, Poppy?
I can’t help it. After five years of being hit on by lobbyists, Hill staffers, and military men temporarily stationed in the Washington area—all of them looking for a sloppy blow job, only some eager to reciprocate, and none promising a call the next day—it’s kind of nice to do this weird tug-of-war thing with Marcus.
There still wouldn’t be a call tomorrow.
And there won’t be any sloppy anythings tonight.
Instead, we’ve got this weird, simmering tension, and it’s kind of fun.
I shouldn’t trust him.
I don’t know him.
I’m writing a story about him…
And yet right now, all I can think about is the look in his eyes when he reached for my zipper. And in that second, I wanted him to tug it down, not up, and I needed to straighten it myself, because if he’d touched me, we wouldn’t be heading out the door right now.
Thankfully he can’t read my thoughts, and instead of stripping me naked, he leads me out of the hotel and down the street. “We’ve got a bunch of options. Pizza, subs, a sports bar that does a half-assed attempt at being a saloon. Thai, barbecue, a couple of Mexican places…”
“Which is your favorite?”
He shrugs. “BBQ, probably.”
“Then lead the way.”
The sun is low in the sky to our west, and I can’t help but notice—again—how beautiful it is here. I tell Marcus as much, and he gives me a slow, easy grin. “Why do you think I moved here?”
“You like it better than California?”
He nods. “Most of the time. I miss surfing, but I only managed to do that once or twice a year. Here I get out climbing almost every week. You know, when I worked at SwiftEx as a software engineer, they talked a good game about work-life balance. Mostly because our campus was in the heart of Silicon Valley and their competitors were doing the same thing. But I still worked a ninety-hour work week. I was on call a lot, had long days. Here…”
He turned in a slow circle, holding out his arms.
“You worked a long day today, though.”
He starts walking again. “Doesn’t feel like it.”
“How many of those shifts do you work in a week?”
“Who’s asking? Reporter Girl?” He says it deliberately, slowly, and he watches me for a reaction.
I don’t give him one. It doesn’t rile me up tonight, and the other reaction is inappropriate. “Yes. I’m asking on the record.”
“Usually four. Sometimes five if I’m swapping with someone.”
“And this week?”
“No comment.”
“Really?” I hustle to get in front of him and we both stop. “Why no comment?”
“No comment to that, too.”
“Is the communications ban still in effect?”
He gives me a wry half-smile. “No comment.”
“And off the record?”
He steps around me. “Let’s get some food first.”
The barbecue place is a walk-up counter in a strip mall, but it smells amazing, and there are a couple of small tables covered in plastic clothes. We place our orders, then I grab a table while Marcus buses our food over.
“Ask me what I was doing this time last year,” he finally says, after I’ve watched him lick sauce off his thumb a few times too many.
That shouldn’t be hot.
There’s something seriously weird about the Colorado air. Maybe it’s that there just isn’t enough of it at this altitude. I’m lightheaded and hallucinating. Wait, that was a clue. “Ask you… Okay. What were you doing this time last summer?”
His mouth tightens as he leans back in his chair. “Not checking day site permits.”
“Who did that?”
“Seasonal staff. Mostly students.”
That’s been covered reasonably well in the press, although I make a mental note to layer it into my story, too. The impact of the hiring ban is widespread. “Mostly? Who else gets hired as a seasonal employee?”
He glances out the window. “Locals.”
That twigs something for me that the Alt Park Service Twitter handle re-tweeted the week before. Local economies tanking because of cutbacks in federal programs. “Not enough people talk about that impact.”
He shakes his head. “Nope.”
“Do you? Maybe secretly?”
He laughs and shakes his head. “On Twitter? Let me ask you this. Where would I get the time or information, when I spend all day on a mountain?”
Truthfully, my story had diverged from that lede over the afternoon. “My personal research shows you get excellent reception at that cabin.”
“That’s not your story, is it?” His jaw flexes, then flares as he grits his teeth. “I thought…”
“What kind of journalist would I be if I let my attraction to you cloud…”
His dark eyes glitter as he stares across the table at me.
Well, that was a dumb thing to confess. I drop my gaze to the leftovers I couldn’t finish—not because they weren’t delicious, but because the portions were insane. Now I’ve blown both my interview and what might have been the oddest first date ever.
Quality reporting, quality peopling, Poppy. “I apologize,” I say, still staring into the small dish of baked beans. “Let me backtrack.”
“No.” His hands appear in my field of vision, and he grabs my basket of food. “I think we’re done here.”
I stand as he dumps our baskets on the counter, gives a curt “thanks” to the people in the kitchen, and pushes his way out the front doors.
I’m so glad I picked the flats.
It takes some good jogging to catch up, because his legs are long and his stride is fierce. “Marcus…”
“You should probably go back to calling me Mr. Dane,” he bites out when I finally get in front of him.
I put my hands on my hips. “I don’t think that will make a difference, do you?”
He glares down at me. Then he looks around, swearing under his breath. Finally,
he looks back at me. “I’m going to kiss you.”
“What?”
“Fair warning.”
“I…uh…okay—” No sooner does the last word jerk out of my mouth than his lips are on mine, his hands in my hair, and there’s a hungry desperation in the embrace.
Like he knows this is a terrible idea.
Terribly good.
Terribly confusing.
Terribly…nice.
Oh.
His lips soften as I kiss him back, because fuck it, I’ve already screwed the interview. I might as well save the connection.
So what if he’s a secret Twitter resistance fighter? I can find another story to write.
“I’m not your Twitter guy,” he growls.
“Stop reading my mind.”
“Is that what you were just thinking about?” He brushes his lips against mine. “I clearly wasn’t doing my job, then.”
“I was…” I exhale as I push up on my toes. “It doesn’t matter.”
He kisses me again, deeper this time. I’m totally ready for him to get handsy, too, but no such luck.
Instead, he eases back and gives me an unexpectedly tender smile. “This is not how I expected my day to go when I woke up.”
“That makes two of us.” I bite the corner of my lip.
“I’m really not the guy you’re looking for,” he says softly. “I should have been straight up with you about that earlier. I probably agree with him, whoever he is. But I’d also bet ten bucks he’s not actually a park ranger.”
“He, or she, gets an awful lot right. One of the tech reporters did an analysis of all the active alt twitter accounts, and the Alt Park Service account—”
Marcus holds up his hands. “And if I wanted to, I could run you an alternate analysis that showed that account to be following the news, not making it. But I don’t, because it doesn’t matter. There’s a resistance movement online, and there are real people behind it. Sure. But the people are almost certainly not who they are pretending to be.”
“I know that.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because you’re a fascinating guy,” I blurt out. And it’s true. He’s the reason I’m here. Ever since I read his bio—
Damn it. I repeat the curse out loud, then I stomp my feet and spin away from him. “Holy crap, how could I be so stupid?” I’m burning up inside as I move toward my hotel, my legs whipping beneath me. Faster, faster.
This time, it’s Marcus calling my name, Marcus getting in front of me and setting his hands on my shoulders. “Poppy, what the hell just happened?”
“I flew all the way out here because I have a crush on you!” I yell in his face. “Which is the worst kind of journalism ever, by the way. And I’m smarter than that. I blew you up in my head to be some kind of hero of the people, and I was so focused on being right about that, I didn’t see that I was distracted by your…your…”
He gives me a wary look, his eyebrows raised. “My…what?”
“Mountain man appeal,” I mutter.
He grins. “Ah.”
“Shut up.”
“That’s nice courting language,” he says, chuckling as I glower at him. “But I can see why you’re frustrated.”
“Good. Now if you’ll just let me head back to my hotel…”
“But you have a crush on me,” he says, stepping aside.
“Had.”
“No, you said have. Present tense. Active crush.”
“It’s the thin air up here, it makes people crazy.”
“You said the crush started in Washington. Thick air there.”
“Different kind of crazy. There may have been a moment flying over Kansas City where I had a chance to see this situation objectively, but I missed it.”
“I have a crush on you, too.”
“You just met me.”
“Insta-crush.”
I give him a sideways look of disbelief. Kissing aside, I don’t believe Marcus does insta-anything. “You kicked me out of your truck.”
“That was self-preservation. I wanted you something fierce, and I thought you were toying with my sensitive emotions.”
“I wasn’t.”
“I know.”
“You wanted me, even in the truck?”
“I wanted you from the first second I saw you. Ponytail and wedge sandals and determined expression. I dug it all.”
Ugh. “That makes this even worse.”
“Why?”
“I put this flight on my credit card. I need to turn in a story that’ll justify the expense.”
“So why can’t you turn in the story that had you glowing earlier?”
“Because it was an infatuation piece! It’s not good journalism! It’s fawning over the hard-done-by park ranger.”
“That sounds great.” He clears his throat when I shoot him another side-eye. “Or not. Okay. I can see the conflict of interest.”
I groan.
“Then we’ll get you a new story,” he says. “One that has nothing to do with me. What time is your flight back?”
“Tomorrow evening.”
“Okay. I’m on it.”
“You don’t need to—”
He holds up his hand. “Maybe not. But I’m going to, anyway. Consider it my penance for the accidental luring with my mountain man appeal.”
He’s enjoying that way too much. I should let him help me as punishment. “Deal.”
CHAPTER 7
Poppy
A HEARTY KNOCK at my hotel room door wakes me up the next morning.
I stumble out of bed, bleary-eyed and quite confused about why my delicious dream about kissing a man with a beard ended so abruptly. Turning in a circle, I take in a bunch of facts at the same time.
It’s barely light out, for one.
And the knocking sounds happy, for another.
Okay, that’s just two facts.
“What is it?” I ask, my brain still fuzzy as I pull the door open.
Marcus holds up a thermos of coffee and gives me a grin.
A bearded grin.
And it all comes rushing back. The kissing, the yelling, the admission of a crush.
His crazy plan that he’ll just find me another story.
“What time is it?”
He slides his gaze down my body, then back up again. “I really like the tiny pajamas. It’s almost six.”
“Almost six. Like…the wrong side of six?”
“What kind of reporter are you that you don’t wake up at dawn?”
The kind who stays up past midnight reworking her story so it doesn’t sound quite so much like a love letter to a certain khaki uniform. I don’t bother answering him. “Is that coffee for me?”
He hands it over and invites himself inside. I don’t mind, because he’s in his uniform and that’s delicious. So is the coffee.
“I’ve got a name for you,” he says, handing over a piece of paper. “Guy by the name of Kaden. He’s a volunteer firefighter, and an experienced climber. We’ve hired him as a seasonal worker for the last eight years. This year, no go. He’s got a good story.”
“Thank you.”
“He’s climbing today. I thought I could take you out there. Good photo opportunity.”
“Okay.”
“I want to kiss you again.”
I jerk my head up from examining his neat, square handwriting. “What?”
He said it in the same way he’d told me about his friend. Now he says it again, but there’s a vibration to his tone. An urgency. “I want to kiss you again. I want a hell of a lot more than that, too. I wasn’t sure if I should kiss you good morning, or—”
I set down the thermos, my hands shaking. “Yes.”
He doesn’t just kiss me. He lifts me up, his hands strong and sure on my torso.
“I don’t want to complicate anything,” he murmurs against my lips.
I smile. “Complicate away.”
His kiss is confident and sure. Firm lips and a light
tongue, just a tease at the seam of my mouth, then sweet, exploratory licks when I open for him. He kisses like he works—methodically, with an edge of promised danger.
Always in control, I bet.
I want to mess him up. I want to make him growl. Would he? What sounds would he make if I licked my way down his corded throat and tasted the skin at the edge of his uniform collar?
Before I get a chance to find out, he sets me down. His eyes are dark and serious as he steps back. “Good morning.”
I cross my arms over my chest. Not now, nipples. Later. “Good morning.”
“I should let you get dressed.” He clears his throat, and jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll wait in the hallway.”
“Five minutes,” I say breathlessly.
Once he’s outside, I look at the name and phone number in my hand. Climbers. Okay.
From my suitcase, I pull my jeans, and a long-sleeved t-shirt, and after I get dressed, I tug on my running shoes and brush my hair back into a ponytail.
I find Marcus in the hallway, scrolling through his phone. He tucks it away and stands up, giving me a once-over that lingers on my shoes. “So you do own sensible footwear.”
“Of course I do.”
“Those are the fourth pair of shoes I’ve seen you in, and the first that are appropriate for the mountains.”
I grin. He’s counting my shoes. That’s adorable. “But these look ridiculous with a dress. And I love dresses. You see the bind I’m in.”
He hesitates. “Fair point.”
I bump my shoulder against his arm as we walk down the hallway. “But I’m glad you approve of my footwear choice today.”
He doesn’t say anything, but the side of his mouth twitches up into a smile.
As he opens his truck door for me, he sets his hand in the small of my back and leans in, pressing his lips against my temple. “I love your dresses, too.”
I finish drinking the coffee he brought me and catalog my thoughts about everything that has happened over the last twenty hours while he drives me out to a popular climbing spot.
“Don’t blast this kid with a lot of questions.”
Rogue Desire: A Romance Anthology (The Rogue Series) Page 33