An Unexpected Path (Right Place, Right Time #1)
1. Marley
ONE
MARLEY
I cannot believe this is how I’m going to die.
Mauled to death by a vicious pack of two hundred canines all because I needed to clear my head on a hike. Fucking fantastic.
Okay, I’m being dramatic because there are only about twenty dogs, and they don’t actually look all that vicious. I’m pretty sure the leader is one of those Taco Bell dogs. Even so, I’m wondering why I decided I had to travel an hour from home to think about my future? I like hiking, but there are a hundred trails near my apartment. Why the hell did I pick the one inhabited by feral beasts? Go for a hike to decide if you still want to work in actual war zones, Marley. You’ll be able to think in peace without the threat of an air raid or sniper fire, Marley. Not only did I manage to talk myself into mental knots instead of finding clarity, but I twisted my ankle and accidentally made myself prey.
The pain in my ankle practically disappears as the dogs burst through the tall ferns surrounding me. I throw my arms up at the last possible second to cover my face, applying the long-disproved ostrich logic that if I can’t see them, they won’t be able to see me. Astoundingly, the feeling of hundreds of teeth piercing my flesh doesn’t come, and for the briefest of moments I wonder if I did in fact disappear—that is, until I notice that I’m wet. Tongues and noses make contact with every inch of exposed skin, and I’m almost shocked to realize I’m laughing. It feels like I’m being tickled, possibly to death, which, I suppose, is a far more pleasant way to go than mauling.
“Off!” a deep, commanding voice booms.
Just as quickly as the tongue-lashing begins, it stops, all except for one rather persistent tongue. A dopey-looking little white dog is going to town on my left shoe.
“Yogurt!” The voice sounds exasperated now. I finally look up from the white dog in the direction the other dogs are all staring. I’ve never been one to cower from a man simply because of his size, yet I can’t help doing so now. But then something comes to me.
“I’m sorry, did you just call that dog Yogurt?”
The man doesn’t smile so much as smirks down at me. “That’s his name,” he says as he bends to pick the little dog up. Yogurt proceeds to lick the man’s neck with the same enthusiasm he’d shown for my shoe. And while I should probably be worried about my current, rather vulnerable state, I find that I’m somewhat jealous of Yogurt.
I’m not too proud to admit that my love life is seriously lacking in the companion department right now, but going very strongly in the self-love one. One could even say I’ve mastered that one. I am the self-appointed Chief Orgasm Officer, the COO of the company at this point. Not that I want a companion; I’m happily single by choice. But I also know a good-looking man when I see him, and the man standing in front of me is making me think things I normally wouldn’t think in this or any other situation. Things like, Hey you, want to come home with me for Christmas to meet my family? Which is wild since I don’t even spend Christmas with my family.
I’m not sure how long I’ve been watching Yogurt lick the man’s neck, but he’s clearly tried to ask me something a couple of times because he’s squatting beside me with his brow furrowed. I absently wonder if he would relax his face a bit if I licked it too? I give my head a shake and tell myself to pull it together. I’ve been in some pretty intense situations, and I’ve never allowed myself to zone out like this. I’m happy no one I know is here to witness it.
“Sorry?” I ask, instinctively pulling my knees up, which as it happens, is the worst thing I could have done. My vision goes white, and I let out a sound that has all the dogs perking up.
“You are hurt!” The well-licked man inches closer, holding his hands out as if I’m a wild animal and he doesn’t want to frighten me. Years of working in dangerous places have taught me to not judge people by how they look. Some of the nicest-looking people will take out an entire village without dropping their smile. Heavily tattooed and pierced bikers will give you the shirt off their back, drive you to the closest hospital, and wait around to make sure you’re okay while expecting absolutely nothing in return. And here I am in the middle of the forest with a very badly sprained ankle, a not-so-vicious pack of dogs, and a man who is coming off as a gentle giant. Once the pain dulls again, I open my eyes and meet intense hazel ones.
“Is it your ankle?”
I nod again because apparently the part of my brain that transmits words to my mouth malfunctioned when my ankle did.
“Do you mind if I take a look? It would mean touching you.” I’m starting to nod when he adds, “I need a verbal yes.”
“Yes, you may touch me.” Which sounds a bit more like, Oh yes god, please touch me , so I quickly add, “My ankle, I mean. You may touch my ankle.” My libido, which had started to rev up, brakes hard, and I release a slow steady breath as he reaches for me.
His touch is gentle as he traces his fingers over my skin, and a pleasurable sensation fires in all directions.
“I’m going to turn it a bit. It’s probably going to hurt.” I nod again, then immediately wish the dogs had mauled me to death when the pain that shoots through my body manages to force the contents of my stomach to empty onto my lap and his left shoe. He looks down at his shoe, then my lap and back at my ankle. “Seems pretty conclusive that you’ve got a bad sprain.”
I drag my eyes back to his, ready with a smartass reply, but the look on his face is so earnest that I swallow the words down. He gives me a soft smile and then turns his attention to the tree line.
“I’d offer to take you to the hospital, but my road is out.” He looks over at me with so much guilt, like he’d caused the rain last night that had likely led to that happening. “Where did you come onto the trail?”
I reach for my phone and zoom in on the trail map I had saved. “Um, I came in at Hanlan Point.” I’m not even sure I managed to stay on the right trail. I’d veered off at one point because the creek had overflowed.
He takes my phone and winces. “You’re eight klicks from where you started.” Holy shit! I must have said it out loud because he laughs. “I’m guessing you weren’t really paying attention to the map?”
“I tend to zone out a bit when I’m hiking.” This is a half-truth; I’m dyslexic as fuck, and maps are not always my friend. Zoning out plus eye-to-brain communication issues equals a recipe for disaster—or in my case, a sprained ankle far from my car, in the company of a stranger and his band of merry mongrels.
“Well,” he says, handing my phone back and squeezing the back of his neck, “you’re welcome to come back to my place. I’m not sure how long it’s going to be until the road is fixed, but at the very least we can get some ice on your ankle.”
“I’m not sure I have much of a choice at this point. I don’t think I could get back to my car, and even if I could, there’s no way I could drive it.”
“If I squat down, do you think you could climb onto my back?”
A tiny voice somewhere inside me squeals, He wants you to climb him .
“Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary. Maybe if we just find a big stick?” This man is tall, and he looks like he’d do just fine against hurricane-force winds. But I’m 5’10” and on the curvy side of athletic, and while I’m a confident independent woman, society has trained me to shy away from being carried for fear of breaking someone’s back. And let’s not forget the whole vomiting on myself thing.
“Have you tried putting weight on it?”
I wince. “Tried and failed.”
“So your options are to stay here and be tormented by mosquitoes and raccoons, go for a piggyback ride, or—and I won’t lie, I’ve always wanted to do this—be thrown over my shoulder in a fireman’s carry.”
“You’ve always wanted to throw me over your shoulder?” I ask, confused.
“Well, not you specifically, but I’ve always kind of wondered what it would be like.”
“That’s some weird strong-guy shit to wonder about,” I say, putting my phone away and swinging my bag onto my back. I should probably be a bit more concerned that he’s always wanted to throw someone over his shoulder. Maybe I should dive deeper into this desire of his. Is the person conscious or unconscious? Are they a willing participant?
He shrugs. “There are probably weirder things.”
“I guess it is on the low end of weird.” I look up at him and bite my lip. I try not to notice the way his gaze follows as it disappears between my teeth and stays there for a second longer than is appropriate. The transition is going to hurt, and I feel like no matter where I end up on this man’s body, I’m going to be all kinds of uncomfortable. That alone is disappointing because, in a very different situation, I’d imagine being on his body would be satisfying.
“So? What’s it going to be?”
I huff. “Piggyback, please.” I’m rewarded with that lovely smile again before he turns and drops into a deep squat. Somehow I manage to maneuver myself enough to avoid putting my right foot down at all. Large hands cup my thighs, and my arms instinctively wrap around his neck, effectively cutting off his air supply. I’m very good at this damsel-in-distress thing, clearly. I quickly readjust my position and apologize as he hoists me up a bit higher. “I’m Marley, by the way.”
“Bennett,” he says, turning his head slightly, causing his beard to brush my cheek.
“Well… I guess take me to your home, Bennett.”
This is either going to be the best or worst thing that has ever happened to me.