7. Stig
Seven
Stig
T he next few days are kinda hazy—like I’m living in one long, drawn-out dream.
For one thing, I’m home. Back in the cabin I built with my own two hands. This place is both achingly familiar, and not quite how I remembered it—the curtains are a shade lighter than in my head, and Jana’s rearranged some of the furniture. Plus I’m sleeping on the sofa rather than spread-eagled on the bed, getting a whole different angle of the room at night.
The place smells different than I expected, too, because usually when I come home after a long stint away, the air is laced with dust and neglect. One time, a mouse family broke in and made a nest in the tea kettle, and that time it smelled like warm bodies and sweet, nutty fur.
This time, the cabin smells like wood smoke and spices and mango body lotion. I keep sucking in greedy lungfuls, hungry for the scent of home, and for that subtle extra hint of Jana.
Jana.
Yeah, there’s no beating around the bush. There’s one obvious change that’s toppled me into my dreamlike haze.
My gorgeous, prickly fiance. Christ, I can’t get enough.
“Hey,” she mutters every morning as she slips out of bed, the covers rustling against her legs. Jana avoids my eye, even though by the time she’s up and at ‘em, I’m always wide awake and sitting upright on the sofa.
Watching her. Contemplating. Trying to figure out how not to waste this shot. If Jana finds it weird that she wakes up every morning to find me watching her sleep, she hasn’t said anything yet. She just shuffles that peachy little ass to the edge of the bed, waves at me without looking, then stomps her cranky way to the bathroom.
Next comes the shower. The creaking handle as she turns it on; the groan of pipes. Then the drumming of hot water as steam seeps beneath the door, laced with the coconut scent of Jana’s shampoo.
A clatter echoes from the bathroom. My fiance always drops the shampoo bottle, without fail, and always curses loud enough to hear through the door.
I palm the front of my jeans with a hiss, willing my suddenly hard cock to back off.
Every morning, it’s the same: the thought of Jana, naked and wet and slippery beneath the spray, makes me harder than granite. I go from lounging back on the sofa, one ankle resting on my knee, to sitting bolt upright with a vein pulsing in my temple.
This morning, I distract myself the same way I always do: by striding to the kitchen area and making us both a coffee. Mugs clink against the counter top, and I fish in the cutlery drawer for a spoon.
Ever since that first mug, when Jana took a sip and made the sweetest, filthiest little moan of approval, I’ve been searching for ways to coax that sound out of her again. Cooking for her; baking fresh bread and slathering it in butter; bringing hot drinks on cool nights or iced teas on warm days; and rubbing her stiff, slender shoulders.
So far, it’s just the coffee that brings out that rough, needy sound.
Fresh coffee every morning it is, then.
My breath pauses a fraction before the shower cranks off. We may have only lived in this space together for a few days, but I’m telling you, my body is tuned in . I know instinctively how long Jana’s showers take; what she sounds like when she gets snacky; the way she ruffles up her own dark hair when she’s frustrated by something and trying to think. I already know to turn my back, facing the kitchen counter tops and the half-made drinks, as Jana scuttles out of the bathroom in only a towel and dresses at record speed behind me.
She could take her clothes into the bathroom, obviously. Could change in there, where the thought of her bare, brown skin might torture me less, and where there is zero risk of me accidentally turning around too soon and catching a glimpse.
She doesn’t, though. And I’m sure as hell not gonna suggest it.
No, I’m gonna grip the edge of the counter with one hand, holding on to keep myself from turning around, and stir cream into the coffees with the other. The rustling sounds behind me make my teeth clench. What does she look like right now? What is she putting on?
Don’t do it.
Don’t turn around.
Don’t cross the line, asshole.
I never do, for the record. I’d never do anything to make my fiance uncomfortable.
But lord, what I’d give for a single glimpse of Jana in that towel.
* * *
Ten minutes later, we’re sitting out on the deck together, sipping our coffees and watching the birds flit past overhead. Sometimes, a braver bird will land on the wooden deck railing and peck at the seeds that Jana scatters there. A magpie hops along the railing now, beak drumming against the wood, the sunshine bringing out the iridescent blue sheen of its feathers.
This is part of the morning ritual, too. Sharing a moment with Jana as we both brace for the day.
I fucking love it.
“I’m working the late shift tonight,” Jana says, fiddling with the hem of her black Flint’s polo shirt, flipping it up to inspect where the thread’s coming loose. Beneath the shirt, her perfect thighs press at the seams of a pair of gray leggings. “So don’t wait up or anything. I’ll try to be quiet when I come in.”
“Sure,” I say, already knowing full well that I’ll meet Jana at work and walk her home. As if I’m gonna leave my girl to wander around the mountains alone at night, vulnerable to any wolf or bear or unsavory hiker. Nope, not happening.
I’ve seen plenty of the world during my adventuring career. I’ve seen the best of humanity and the wilderness, and the worst of both too, and I don’t care if it’s not truly my place: I’m gonna shelter Jana from all the bullshit that I can.
“What are you doing today?” Jana asks before glancing away. Turns out that despite all her prickliness and bravado, despite threatening to beat me with that lamp, my wife-to-be is kinda shy, preferring to fiddle with her shirt hem than meet my eye. “Adventurer things, I guess.”
“Yup.” Guilty as charged. My fingers drum against my chair’s wooden armrest, as I stare at Jana and silently will her to look back. All I want is her gaze on me and her full, undivided attention; to topple into those doe eyes and keep falling forever. “Need to write up a bunch of articles. Send emails to sponsors. Edit photos and footage. All that bullshit, really.”
There.
Jana glances at me, amused, and the sensation of her honey-brown eyes meeting mine—it’s like a shudder of pleasure down my spine. I grip the armrest so hard the wood creaks.
Then she sips her coffee and looks away, and I melt back against the chair. Can finally breathe again, though I’m winded. Fuck, what is this woman doing to me?
Not for the first time, my nerves prickle with warning beneath my skin. It’s a dangerous game I’m playing here with Jana Kumara, and something tells me there’s more than my pride on the line.
Yes, I want her badly, but did I have to raise the stakes so sky-high when we’d barely even met? What if I ruin this? What if I make this big bet, then walk away with nothing?
Couldn’t I just be normal about this one thing? Not every part of life needs to be an adrenaline sport, damn it. Especially wooing the first woman I’ve ever really wanted.
“People have been asking me about the ring.” Jana blushes as she speaks, watching that magpie like her life depends on it. Suddenly self-conscious, the magpie flaps away and Jana frowns after it, looking betrayed.
“Oh yeah?” My heart thumps slow but hard in my chest. “What did you tell them?”
“That it’s yours.” Jana huffs and finally looks at me square on, meeting my gaze for the second time. There she is : the firecracker who flung an alarm clock at my head. I grin wide, and she rolls her eyes but her lips twitch too. “That we’re engaged. So, you know. The cat is officially out of the bag.”
“And good riddance.” I set my empty mug down, feeling lighter than I have in days—because Jana really meant it. She’s going through with this deal, telling everyone we’re engaged. “Mangy cat.”
Jana’s lips press together. Her confession is quiet. “I don’t like lying to people, Stig.”
I shrug, and school my voice to sound more casual than I feel. “So we’ll just have to follow through, then. Make it true.”
And Christ, I knew this plan was insane from the jump, but hearing it out loud, telling the folks in town, seeing that sapphire sparkling on Jana’s finger…
It’s all getting very real.
We’re approaching the point of no return, and it leaves a familiar swooping sensation in my gut. Like approaching the top of a waterfall in my kayak, flexing my fingers on my paddle and sending up a silent prayer as I drift along the current, cold mist clinging to my beard and sweat trickling in my eyes.
Alive. So alive.
No turning back now.