by Cara McKenna
And . . . nothing. It was like imagining kissing a cardboard cutout.
This fling with Rob was so strange and intense and exciting, she wouldn’t be getting over it anytime soon. And imagining joining him again after a year of longing and pious celibacy . . . Goodness, why was that so undeniably appealing?
She shot him a look. “What are you asking me, Rob?”
“Oh. Well, you joked about it, this morning . . .”
“Are you asking if I’d like to come back for a reunion?”
“I was—I don’t know.”
“Because I would.”
He met her eyes. “Would you?”
She nodded. “If you want that. If you don’t take up with some other nauseous hiker in the meantime.” Ooh, even joking about that gave her the meanest, dumbest pang. Hands off mah hermit, bitch!
“I do,” he said quietly, shifting his gear to the other hand. “I want that.”
She eyed this man, sexy with his damp hair and rare smile, and she knew then it would be longest year of her life, waiting for their next meeting. “It’s a date, then. When do the midges clear out? Late summer?”
He nodded.
“Early September then. Look for me before the first ground frost,” she said with a dramatic hush.
How oddly romantic that they couldn’t even plan an exact date, with Rob incommunicado. It was like she was going off to war in a faraway land, to return only as the fates allowed.
“I’ll take a coach straight to some town on Loch Ness next time,” she said. “Now that I know there are far better ways to invest my time in the Highlands than cross-country hiking.”
“Lucky me.”
“I’ll come bounding up the hill with a wheelbarrow loaded with fresh strawberries and magnums of champagne.”
Rob smiled tightly. “Just some milk for the coffee would suffice.”
And a crank radio. One of those ones you could charge just by winding it. She’d donate however much to NPR during the next pledge drive and score one for him. It could be an early Christmas present . . . In fact, she’d happily mail him one as a surprise, if only he were on a postal route.
She nearly giggled aloud, feeling like one of those girls with a mysterious boyfriend “from camp.” No, you can’t meet him—he lives in a cottage in the middle of nowhere! But he’s hot. And English. And he totally exists. But might he feel suspiciously like a mirage, a few weeks from now . . .
No, not with the vivid memories they’d made together.
And whatever new ones they’d make tonight.
Chapter Twelve
They walked in easy silence for a long while, until Merry caught sight of the cottage at the top of its lonely hill. “Almost home.”
“Almost.”
“This has been such a fantastic day.”
Rob smiled. “Agreed.”
“You know what would make it just perfect?”
“What?”
“Could we cook out? Like, over a campfire?”
“It’ll be cold, but all right. One small trout does not a decent supper make, but I could season some of the venison I’ve got stored, do some sort of hermit-style teriyaki skewers.”
“Yum.”
“You’re on rice duty.”
“Yes, sir.”
Shit, why couldn’t this vacation go on for another month? Even another few days? Why couldn’t she just say nuts to all her commitments, her job, her bills, her dad and Phil’s wedding? In fact . . . if not for that last one, she’d have been tempted. Very tempted. Tell her boss and landlord she’d been detained on espionage charges or something, spend the entire winter happily holed up with Rob. But her dad’s wedding was an event thirty-five years—and generations of civil struggle—in the making, and she wouldn’t miss it for anything. Not even this.
But damn, she had to shake her fist at the fucking timing.
You owe me, Dad. Muchísimo.
They reached the cottage, and Rob organized his things by the pump.
“That fish smells awfully fishy,” Merry said as he unwrapped it.
“Funny, that. Would you guard all this a moment?”
“Guard it from wh—oh.” The dog brushed past, making a beeline for the catch. Merry slipped her bag from her shoulders and crouched, distracting Nameless with a spirited body-scratching. He wasn’t the only interested party. Two crows arrived, perching on the edge of the roof.
“Thanks,” Rob said, returning with a filleting knife and a wooden cutting board. Merry watched with a mix of awe and eww as he cleaned the fish, tossing the guts aside for the crows to feast on.
“They have good timing.”
“They’re bright,” Rob said. “They know what it means when I come home from the northwest.”
“Stalkers.”
“Maybe.” He squinted up at her, smiling in the sunshine. “But I take what I can get, company-wise. The scavengers I usually attract aren’t nearly as lovely as you.”
She laughed.
Rob finished the cleaning the catch and stashed it inside the house while Merry tackled the knife and board, the crows dodging the pump’s spray to steal the last little flecks of meat the water rinsed away.
Rob returned carrying his bow and quiver, and Merry’s heart gave a happy leap.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Let me change into some dry underwear, and you’re on.”
The wind was at their backs as they tramped down the hill, and she twisted her hair into a bun. “My birthday’s in August,” she told Rob.
“Oh?”
“So if you wanted to get me a present, a girly-sized badass archery glove wouldn’t go astray.” She grinned, letting him know it was a joke.
“If I find myself in a town with a shop that sells such a thing, I’d be delighted to buy you your own bow.”
She blushed at that. She could tell he meant it. And she could feel in her body the pure joy such a gift would bring. Such a cool and sporty present, fit for the sort of woman she finally felt herself becoming.
They took turns at target practice for two hours or more, until Merry’s arm stung despite the leather guard and her neck ached. Even then, it was hard to stop. But it was late afternoon, and the day’s nonstop activity had her stomach rumbling again.
“How about an early dinner?” she asked, dropping the last of the collected arrows into the quiver Rob held.
“Works for me. Though first I might take a load of laundry to the creek, in case you needed some clean underwear and socks for your hike.”
She took him up on the offer. He returned shortly with a dripping heap of clothes, which he hung along a line run between the cottage and shed. She admired his old mustard-colored tee draped beside her fuchsia top, flags from two very different homelands, histories, lives. Yet here, together, somehow, warming under the same sun, swaying in the same breeze.
It took a while to prepare the fire and get a pot of rice started inside, to find two thick logs to serve as seats before the crackling flames. The dog returned as Rob brought out a platter with the fish and some venison and potato chunks he’d seasoned, and a fistful of metal skewers.
“Perfect,” Merry said, delighted by the evening’s menu.
Rob handed Merry her half of the main course just as she returned with the rice. She didn’t think she’d ever tasted fish this good. Clean and perfectly complemented by salt and pepper, crispy here, juicy there.
“Wow. That’s amazing.”
“Nothing fancy,” he said, but smiled at the praise all the same. He tossed a sample to the dog.
“That’s why it’s so good. No oil, no breading, no sauce.”
“No frills,” he agreed. “Like everything else out here.”
Merry’s gaze jumped to his wrist
, to the rope cuff. It had to be quite dry by now—dry and scratchy. She smiled to herself.
With the entrée done, they slid potato chunks and hunks of venison onto skewers for the next course. It was all so simple. And perfect. So uncomplicated. Merry felt an invisible cloud pass across the pure blue sky. She’d be flying home again, and so soon. Back to work. Back to reality. Back to all those numbers, all that diligence, when out here, exercise and food and her own body were so . . . thoughtless.
It was fear, she realized. Not an overwhelming kind of dread, but a quiet, nagging panic.
Not now, she warned herself. Not on this final evening. Not with Rob. Focus on all the wonderful things. There are so many.
The sky grew dusky. She crossed her ankles and hugged her chest with her free arm, leaning in toward the fire, close enough to feel its heat on her face, that same force crisping the potatoes’ skins. “This place—your home—is really lovely.”
“It does the job.”
“There’s only one thing that’s missing.”
“Electricity?”
She turned her skewer. “Guess again.”
“Hot water? Mobile signal? Grumpy bastard-proofing?”
She laughed. “No. Not even close.”
He seemed to puzzle over it seriously for a moment. “People?”
“Music. Don’t you miss it?”
“I do, yes. But I love the silence, as well.”
“If we had wine, I’d turn this into a one-woman campfire sing-along.”
“Why do you need wine for that?”
“Same reason I need it to dance. It’d probably take a whole bottle if I ever needed to find the balls to try karaoke.”
“Dutch courage,” he teased, eyes on the flickering fire.
“My mom always called it ‘Scotch courage.’ I thought that was the term until I was about twenty-five. I wonder why it’s called that—Dutch.”
“Because of gin,” he said, still staring at the flames. “Gin came from Holland, originally.”
“Leave it to a former bar owner to know.”
Rob didn’t reply. He seemed happy for the silence, and Merry decided to join him in it as they finished their meal. But after a long, peaceful stretch marred only by the popping logs, he said, “Sing something.”
“Where’s my gin?” she teased, deflecting.
He met her eyes. “I miss music, too. I’d love to hear you sing something. Anything.”
“I dunno.”
He smirked, eyes crinkling. “I’ve bared a lot more of myself to you than a less-than-perfect singing voice, Merry.”
“And I’ve indulged quite a few of your requests already, Rob.”
“Please?” He said it so quietly, with so much hope in his eyes, that she caved.
“Okay. You don’t own a guitar, do you? Or a harmonica?”
“Sorry. Never my forte.”
“Well, you better join in if you know the words.”
And the words to what? And for whom? Rob, herself, her mother . . . perhaps all three. She hummed the opening guitar strums to “All I Want” and found the key, playing that old record along in her head. When the lyrics kicked in, she knew every one, every pause and nuance, and they flowed from her, easy as breathing. She let her eyes close and her feet tap. She heard her mother’s voice, as essential a part of this song as the crackling of that overplayed album—real as the crackling of the fire before her.
She was no Joni, to be sure. She squeaked on the highest notes, but she ached so badly for music, her modesty dissolved, sucked up into the darkening sky with the wood smoke. After a couple verses, Rob joined her.
He didn’t seem to know the words, but his deep voice cushioned her airier one with a low, harmonious hum. She shivered, deep down inside her skin, to feel united with him this way. Just like the fire and meal and mountains—pure and elemental.
All too soon, the song came to an end.
She opened her eyes and found him smiling at her. The dog was at his side, head resting on his shoe.
“That was lovely. You have a beautiful voice.”
“Oh.” She waved the compliment away.
“That was Joni Mitchell, if I’m not mistaken?”
She nodded. “My mom’s idol.”
“I don’t really know that one. I know the one about the parking lot, though. If you fancy accompaniment.”
“Who’s your favorite singer? Or band?”
“I used to be quite fond of old R&B.”
She cocked her head at him. “Really?”
He grinned. “Really. I never heard either of my parents listen to them, but they had a bunch of old albums I discovered in my teens. Otis Redding and Muddy Waters. Marvin Gaye. Bill Withers and that lot.”
“What songs do you know by heart?”
“Oh . . . I wouldn’t know until I tried to sing them.”
“‘The Dock of the Bay’? I know that one, mostly. The part about heading for the Frisco Bay, anyhow.”
They muttered together in harmony until Merry found the opening lyrics, buried deep in her memory bank. From there, it was effortless. Her body vibrated each time their voice hit some sweet, resonant chord, and she felt her hair stand up, electric. They ran through all the Beatles songs they both knew, David Bowie and Fleetwood Mac—their parents’ music—until all evidence of the sun was gone, until gold sparks were chasing one another from the fire and into the endless black sky.
“You’re shivering,” Rob said. And if Merry hadn’t been already, his voice, so quiet and deep in the night air, would’ve done the job.
“I guess I am.” And just like that, her awareness shifted. They’d connected voice to voice, sound to sound, but all at once it was his body she wanted to communicate with. She wanted to tell him things with her own body, things like Thank you for this afternoon, in the loch. What else do you like, you lovely, twisted mystery of a man?
He stood with a little groan that spoke for Merry’s own stiff muscles. “C’mon. Let’s get you inside.”
They doused the fire and gave the dog good-night ear-scratchings at the back door. By the light of a ripening three-quarter moon, Rob entered the dark cottage ahead of her, and a lantern came on in the den just as Merry got her shoes pushed off.
“Tea?” he asked, rubbing his hands, glancing around the kitchen.
“No, I’m fine.” No way was she chancing a full bladder. She’d much rather stay in a warm bed with Rob than have to go dashing outside to use the bathroom.
“I’ll pass as well, then,” he said. “Let me just get the dinner things cleaned before the animals get nosy. Would you mind tending the stove?”
“Not at all.” She was proud to know the drill.
Once Rob disappeared and the fire was crackling to life, Merry wandered around the den. Her gaze jumped to the support beam standing between the kitchen and living area, to the thick old iron hook that held the lantern. She pursed her lips to hide her smirk as a wicked thought dawned.
After a few minutes, the telltale squeaking of the pump outside ceased and Rob returned carrying the platter and skewers and rice pot. He set them on the stove and dried his hands on a washcloth.
She waited until he looked to her, then smiled.
“This has been quite a day,” he said. “How shall we cap it off, do you think?”
She let her grin turn sinister, meeting him by the warm stove.
“Yes?”
“Come.” She took his hand, leading him to his bedroom. He lit the lantern above the bed.
She stripped to her underwear and base layer as Rob shed his shirt and swapped his jeans for drawstring bottoms. They climbed under the covers and she freed her hair from its bun.
Their mouths came together.
She could kiss this m
an for hours. These soft lips, in turns firm and sensual, his tongue stroking hers, those faint growls vibrating at her throat. The balance of power might swing dramatically when Rob was enjoying the sex he liked, but the way he kissed her was just . . . damn.
These kisses said, I can take care of a woman in bed, in any way she wants, for as long as she can handle.
The truth of his sexuality was far different, far trickier. But Merry didn’t mind. This was a chance affair, not a marriage. Plus she liked that dichotomy. She liked knowing his secret. She liked that a man could make her feel this mastered with his mouth and tongue and fingertips, but when it came down to it, he could only come by imagining he was helpless. At her mercy.
Right now he was nearly above her, a strong hand cupping her ribs, a hard thigh creeping between hers. She welcomed the gruff intrusion of his other leg as he moved, bracing himself above her, and welcomed the dark promises his eyes made. She hugged her legs to his hips and sucked a sharp breath when he lowered, his cock unmistakably hard behind soft flannel.
“Wow,” she murmured.
His smile carved lines beside his lips, turning his face from intense to mischievous. “Wow what?”
“Are you thinking about the rope?”
“I wasn’t, no.”
“So you don’t need to, to get hard.”
“Not always.”
“But you have to at least think about that sort of stuff, if you want to get off.”
“Yeah. A woman alone can arouse me, but eventually it just starts to feel . . . pleasant.” His smile turned apologetic. “It’s like a hot bath, the way it feels scalding at first, but goes tepid after a bit . . . I wish it didn’t.”
She shrugged against the pillow. “You are how you are.” But she wondered if perhaps the longer he was with a woman . . . Did that tepidness grow along with the familiarity, until any given lover amounted to no more than a lukewarm soak? If the rope or the power play could always bring the heat, did it matter? Or had climbing into bed with his last long-term lover become nothing more than a cold dunk by the time they’d called it quits?
But she didn’t know what he needed. Couldn’t offer him that. Or wouldn’t. Perhaps a woman willing to meet Rob’s needs would have herself a worshipful admirer for life.