Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Gabby
“This is where you live?” I ask, scanning the clearing in surprise.
When Tucker told me we could follow the valley between the mountains and walk to his property from where we capsized, I immediately wondered if I would be the dead body featured on a future Dateline documentary.
But what choice did I have? The rapids made crossing the river on foot impossible, so getting to the only known road was not an option.
“This is home,” he confirms.
A medium-sized RV stands near a fire pit with camping chairs around it.
A small shed I suspect is full of outdoor gear sits off to the side.
A narrow dirt-packed trail leads to a cleared plot of land that’s walking distance from the RV, with pipes sticking out of the ground in various places, as if something is about to be built there.
“Pretty cool, right?” Tucker asks, his breath tickling my neck as he comes up behind me.
Instantly, heat collects between my legs.
It shouldn’t surprise me that Tucker Black, bad boy heartthrob that he was in high school, is capable of sending a woman into another universe with nothing more than his very capable hands.
And maybe, if I’m being completely honest with myself, I was jealous of all the girls who got to fool around with him back then.
When he left town, I’d never had a real orgasm. I was still a virgin.
“This is really yours?”
The three-sixty view is all mountains and fall foliage. The stark colors are unreal from this vantage point. It’s mostly cloudy, but the sun peaks through in spots highlighting patches of colorful trees. It’s a picture perfect moment if ever I saw one.
My fingers itch to capture the breathtaking nature scene in a photo, but when I pat my pockets, I remember my phone’s in the waterproof bag I miraculously recovered during the kayak flip. Odd that nearly dying doesn’t have me more rattled.
The bag sits in a camping chair near the fire pit, far enough away that I decide pictures can wait a few moments longer. Or maybe it’s the way I enjoy Tucker coming up behind me and wrapping his arms around my waist that makes me reluctant to travel any distance away from him.
“It’s not much yet,” Tucker says, his beard tickling my cheek. “But I’m going to build a cabin over there. One with a deck that faces the sunset. A smaller one with rocking chairs to face the sunrise. It’s going to take a while, so until then, I have Bertha.”
“Bertha?”
“I didn’t name her,” he says, unwrapping his arms from me. I feel the absence of his warmth instantly, like someone stripped a fuzzy blanket off me. “But the guy I bought her from gave me a steal of a deal, on the condition that I kept her name.”
“You’re making that up.”
He shrugs once. “It’s the truth.”
“This is your land then?” That part is less believable than the Bertha story.
Tucker was always antsier than even me growing up.
He couldn’t wait to leave our hometown, to get away from his abusive, gambling addict of a father.
He was never the settle-down type. It wasn’t just something we had in common, it was the core of our friendship.
“I bought it a month ago.”
“Another great deal?” I guess.
“A great deal is an understatement. There’s already electrical and sewer hookups. The lady I bought it from was going to build a cabin, but then she met the love of her life and moved to Spain. She knew she wasn’t coming back, and she wanted the land to go to someone who would appreciate it.”
“Let me guess. You met her in some airport terminal, and she instantly fell for your charms?”
“Actually, Annie lived right here in Cinnamon Creek.”
“How did she meet Mr. Spain?”
I follow him as we walk around the cleared spot for the future cabin, trying to imagine what it would be like to look out a kitchen or bedroom window in the fall and be greeted with these amazing views in all directions.
It’s the kind of dream that could tempt me to settle down—one day, very far down the road.
“She and her sister won an all-expenses paid trip on a radio show contest, of all things. It was one of those group tours. Anyway, she met Alejandro at a wine tasting, and well, it was love at first sight.”
“What about her sister?”
“Agnes Collins still lives here in Cinnamon Creek. Stick around long enough, you might meet her. She’s a riot.”
I consider telling him what Fred said about the rafting company always needing help, but the last thing I want to do is fall back into old patterns.
Ones where we talk about traveling the world together, taking odds jobs in all our favorite places, and never staying in any one place long.
Because let’s face it, what are the odds that he’ll really be in Cinnamon Creek next summer?
“What are you going to do with a cabin, Tucker?”
“Live in it.”
“For how long?”
“Forever.”
I laugh at what I’m most certain is a joke, following Tucker back toward Bertha. I’m itching to take some scenic photos and take a direct path to my waterproof bag to retrieve my phone. “You trying to establish a home base or something?”
“I know this might come as a shock to you, but I’m putting down roots. Real ones.”
“Why now?”
“It’s time.”
I reach for my bag, unzipping it. “What changed?”
“My dad.”
“He’s not here, is he?” I snap my attention to Tucker, feeling an overprotectiveness rise to the surface.
I was one of the few who knew what Tucker actually went through growing up.
How awful his father was to him. How that piece of shit gambled away the college fund his grandparents left him.
Maybe joining the military had less to do with me, and more to do with that situation.
All except the leaving without saying goodbye part.
“My dad’s dead.”
“Since when?”
“Since July.”
“I’m sorry—”
“Don’t be. I’m not.”
“Is that how you got the money to buy Bertha and this plot of land?”
“Nope.”
“Oh, I should’ve known there wouldn’t be any money from that. Sorry, I didn’t mean to assume anything.” I reach into my bag, pushing around my wallet, lodge room key, sunglasses, and snacks. But there’s no trace of a phone. “Shit.”
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“My phone. It’s missing.” I look back in the direction we came, dreading the inevitable walk back toward the river to find it.
It’s at least a mile, maybe a little farther if it fell out near the water.
The sun will likely dip behind the mountains within the hour.
Though I’m no stranger to braving it in nature, I’m not excited about a chilly walk in the dark.
“Of course you left it,” Tucker says, a statement, not a question.
“I didn’t mean to.”
“Maybe it’s a sign,” he adds.
“For what?”
“That you need to disconnect more.”
His hand drops to my hip, and for a moment, he almost has me.
I sink back against him, my back to his chest, and tilt my head so he can nuzzle my neck.
His soft beard tickles my skin, and my nipples pebble at the delightful sensation.
I’d let him strip me naked and fuck me right here if only he kept rubbing his beard against me in all the best places.
“I need my phone,” I murmur, tempted to say screw it and tell him to screw me.
“Why?”
“So the girls don’t worry about me not making it back to the lodge.”
“You sound pretty confident that I’m going to ask you to spend the night.”
I reach my hand behind my back, cupping his hard length through his trekking pants. “Am I wrong?”
He bites down on my neck, ever so gently, and my knees go weak.
Yeah, I definitely need to see what Tucker Black is capable of before I get on that plane to California in a couple of days.
Would friends with benefits really be the worst thing we could be?
It’d give me a reason to visit Cinnamon Creek once in a while.
“Let’s go find your phone,” he grumbles, stepping out from behind me and catching my hand in his.
“It’s your fault, you know,” I say as we head back down the same trail we took earlier.
“How is this my fault?”
“You made my soul leave my body with your magic hands. I forgot my fucking name there for a minute, just like you said I would. You really think I had a single thought about my phone—”
I stop, jerking Tucker to a halt with me.
“What—”
“My phone!” I hiss, keeping my voice low and pointing toward a fox sitting just off the trail.
A fucking fox. Maybe I hit my head on a rock when I went under, and I’m currently in the hospital in a coma.
Because there’s no way I’m seeing what I’m seeing.
This isn’t real life. Foxes don’t steal fucking cell phones!
And yet, how else can I explain what’s happening?
We’re at a stand-off, this fox and me. My purple-cased phone is clamped in his surprisingly large mouth.
“Leave the phone, buddy, and no one gets hurt.” I speak to the wild animal as though it can understand me.
As if this scenario makes any fucking sense.
Never in my life have I worried about a fox stealing my phone.
A raccoon? That I would buy. Those trash pandas, cute as they may be, are collectors.
But a wild fox?
“What do you want for it? Do you have a bunch of foxy friends with unlimited data plans?”
“Unlimited data—”
“Just put the phone down and name your price,” I say, ignoring Tucker’s low chuckle.
This is not funny. The little guy is slobbering all over my phone.
And I bet those razor-sharp teeth have scratched the glass all to hell.
I knew I should’ve sprung for that protective glass thingy, but of course I decided to be cheap. “Buddy, c’mon. We can work this out.”
“What are you doing?” Tucker asks.
“What does it look like I’m doing? Negotiating with a terrorist.”
The fox shoots off into the tall grass, headed for the tree line, apparently uninterested in making a trade since the cute little jerk takes my fucking phone with him into the woods. I see the flash of purple just before he vanishes completely into the trees.
Well, shit.