Chapter 23
S everal hours later, Ridge woke first. He wanted to shower, but not as much as he wanted to stay and keep holding Maggie while she continued to sleep. Somehow it was as if neither of them had budged during their many hours of slumber, though they were usually both active sleepers. They were still facing each other and nestled together, her hands balled into fists at his chest, his arm slung over her waist. The temptation he had previously felt toward her had been snuffed out, probably by her grief for her dog. He found it nearly impossible to be turned on by a woman sobbing her eyes out for her lost pet. Instead he felt the usual warm affection as always, and a thankful appreciation for her continued presence in his life. What would he do without his sweet girl? He felt lost and alone at the prospect. In a little over six months, she had become the center of his universe, and not one part of him was tempted to stop and analyze why. It simply was. The same way the sun rose and set each day there was Maggie, at once his rock and soft place to fall.
A clump of hair tumbled over her face. He pushed it back and she shifted, scooting closer and pressing her face into his neck. PING. There it was, the physical attraction that had been miraculously absent returned with force. His hand slipped to her lower back and pressed her impossibly closer. She muttered his name, “Cam.” Or was it “Sam?”
He froze. Was she awake or asleep? “Did you say something?”
Maggie rolled away from him and blinked, dazed. “What? ”
“Did you say something?” he repeated.
“I don’t know,” she said. Rubbing her eyes, she sat up. “What time is it?”
“Four.”
“AM or PM?”
“PM,” he said. He missed her warmth, and he wanted an answer to his question. Had she said his name or Sam’s? For that matter, what happened between her and her former fiancé in that house? He gave her the flash drive and told her he would help get her out. What else went down?
She drew her knees up to her chest and stared around the room, confused. He rested his palm on her lower back again. “Mags, honey, do you know where you are?”
“Yes, but my brain is sluggish. Do you mind if I shower first? That way I can try to wrangle together some food while you shower,” she said, yawning and stretching.
“Fine. There are some clothes here, in the chest at the end of the bed.” He used his toe to tap the chest.
She hopped off the bed and went to investigate, lifting the lid so she was hidden behind it. “Hey, there are no women’s clothes in here,” she complained.
“Yeah, not a lot of women have used this place. I’m fairly certain there are some new packages of underwear and toiletries in the closet,” he said. He rolled to his back and stared at the ceiling while she rooted in the small closet. She withdrew and tossed him a four pack of unopened boxers.
“Apparently we’re going to be sharing those,” she said.
“At the same time?” he blurted, and she laughed.
“No, silly, it’s not a three-legged race. Take which ones you want and toss me the other two,” she said.
He held the underwear aloft. “I don’t think women are allowed to wear boxers. Maybe I should keep all four. You’ll have to go without, sorry. Not sorry. ”
She picked up a random shoe from the closet and tossed it at him. “Denying a hostage underwear is against the Geneva convention.”
“That is not true, and you are not a hostage,” he said.
“I was brought to a cabin in the woods in my pajamas with no clothes, no shoes, no makeup, and no form of communication. This is definitely a hostage situation.”
“Would a kidnapper have brought you your purse?” he asked.
“For real, you did?” she asked.
“For real, along with your gun, but not your phone because it’s traceable,” he said.
“Hey, when are you going to tell me about the mole? How did you know there’s a mole and who is it?”
“Shower first, talk later,” he said.
She chucked the other shoe at him.
“What was that for?” he asked.
“You have a lot of stipulations on when we’re allowed to talk. You’re not the boss of me.”
“Um,” he began.
“Okay, you’re the boss of me, but we’re not at work,” she said.
“Fine, we’ll talk about the mole,” he agreed.
“Wait, let me shower first,” she said. “Toss me the undies, please.”
He reached for his boxers.
“Not the ones you’re wearing,” she said.
“You didn’t specify,” he said.
She came over to him, took the package of underwear, smacked him on the head with it, and went to take her shower.
Ridge continued to lay on his back in the bed, trying hard not to picture what was happening in the room next door. Eventually the shower turned off and Maggie called out to him.
“Cam, are you ready for this?”
“Ready for what?” he asked.
“My debut. You’re going to want to rip my clothes off when you see me, but don’t do it.”
He sat up on his elbows for a better view as she came back into the bedroom. He wolf whistled. “Sexy.”
“I know, right?” she asked, turning in a circle so he could make a full inspection. She wore a too-big flannel shirt and too-long jeans that had been cuffed multiple times and cinched at the waist with an ill-fitting belt.
“I love your paper towels, Mr. Brawny,” he said.
“Be right back, gotta go grab my axe and clear cut the forest,” she called as she made her way out of the room and to the kitchen. He heard her begin her search through the cupboards. Smiling, he got up to take his turn in the bathroom.
Meanwhile Maggie began to search for food. What she found was not promising. The house contained zero fresh ingredients. All fruit, vegetables, and meats were canned. The good news was she knew how to cook and was fairly adept at assembling something from nothing. The bad news was, even with her best efforts, the resulting outcome would probably not be great. There was no way to get blood from a turnip and, in this case, she would be happy to have a fresh turnip to work with.
Ridge took long showers. Maggie had commented on it once because he was former military and taking short showers was kind of their thing. That’s why I do it, he had replied. Too many years being forced to take short, icy showers. Taking long, hot showers is one way I remind myself I’m out of the military and in charge of my own life. Today she was glad for his prolonged absence because it gave her a chance to try and get her wayward emotions under control. Later, she would give in to her grief for Samson. Right now was not the time. Technically they were still on the job and needed to keep clear heads. Additionally, Ridge did not want to spend the next few days with a woman who couldn’t stop weeping. She allowed a few, cleansing tears as she made her way around the kitchen and then ordered them back to their wells, to be retrieved at a later date when she was truly alone and could linger over her raw feelings.
“Smells good,” Ridge said when he finally joined her in the kitchen.
“Hey, the ocean called. They want their water supply back,” Maggie said, her back to him as she removed a dish from the microwave.
“The nineties called. They want that joke back,” he retorted.
She turned and nearly dropped the hot dish in her hands. “You’re wearing a hoodie.”
“There wasn’t a large selection in the box of miscellaneous clothing. Do you want to switch and I’ll take the flannel?” he asked.
“No. It’s, um, nice.” It was more than nice; it was incredible. She was used to seeing him a certain way, in a well-tailored suit and tie. Even when he dressed down he usually wore a button down shirt, sans tie and jacket. She had never once seen him don a sweatshirt, let alone a faded gray hoodie. It made him seem so…attainable. No longer did he look like the Adonis who would only date supermodels. Now he looked like the boy next door, like someone she would have known and been friends with in high school, like someone she would have had an undying crush on.
“Maggie, you’re staring at me,” he said .
“I am, aren’t I?” she asked as the hot dish began to burn her fingers. At last she set it on the table and shook out her hands.
“Would you like to tell me why?” he asked.
“Very much no,” she said. She couldn’t look at him. In addition to the hoodie, his usually perfect hair was wet and tousled. Perfection didn’t tempt her. But this disheveled iteration of him was almost too much temptation. In her current emotionally vulnerable state, she began to genuinely fear what she might do. She sat on her hands and stared at her plate, determined not to make a pass at her best friend. Previously they had shared a fleeting physical temptation, but that was only natural. They were still male and female. So much time spent together would have that effect on almost anyone. Maggie had never found him as appealing as she did at this moment, and the realization couldn’t have come at a worse time. You will not make a fool of yourself; you will not mess everything up. The pep talk helped some and she was able to raise her eyes when he spoke.
“What is this?” he asked. Thankfully he was motioning to the food and not her strange, new behavior.
“Chicken and rice and sweet and sour green beans,” she said.
“Maggie, that’s amazing. How do you do that? I know the kind of junk they keep on hand here.”
“Food is my love language,” she said.
“You’re joking,” he said, flicking her knuckles.
“No, it’s true. It’s a secret I’ve kept from you all these months,” she said.
“What other secrets have you been keeping from me?”
He smiled, and whatever quip she was about to make died on her lips. That I prefer men in hoodies and jeans rather than expensive Italian suits. “I’m an expert marksman,” she blurted, and he laughed.
“Cute,” he said and dished himself a huge pile of casserole.
Yes, you are, Maggie wanted to say. He was a deadly handsome man and, strangely, that held zero appeal for her. She had seen him shirtless numerous times and stripped down to his boxers a handful more. She had appreciated his perfect physique, but in the same way she admired a statue at the museum. It was beautiful, flawless, and untouchable. But this unutterable cuteness might be her undoing. He was real and warm and adorable and she was in so much trouble . Her mind flailed about for something, anything to distract from her tumult.
“Tell me about the mole.”