4. Rue
rue
. . .
pheromonal food chain
I don’t hate men—frankly, they haven’t shown me they deserve that level of emotional investment—but if I could take a pill that would turn off my attraction to them?
Sign me up.
I’d be just as eager to take one tailored to a single man. Specifically, the one walking five steps ahead of me, leading me down a dirt path like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Like his presence isn’t rapidly turning my dream into a nightmare.
Like there was nothing weird at all about him throwing a heavy, bare arm over my shoulders and telling Claudia we’re practically family. That he’d love to show me to my cabin—which is apparently right beside his.
Glaring at his messy, offensively thick man bun, I pretend my eyes are lasers capable of exploding his head like a ripe melon.
Kaboom. Bye bye, man bun.
“Why is there a giant wet spot on your shirt?”
He doesn’t look back as he asks, and I’m almost grateful his voice has reverted to a familiar tone: detached and cool.
Since there’s no reality in which I’d tell him about the catastrophic experience I endured in the Lodge’s bathroom upon my arrival, I say blandly, “Because when I found out you were here, I threw up on myself.”
He snorts, throwing me a brief glance over his shoulder. I look away instead of making eye contact, a decision I regret when I catch the curl of a smug smile as he turns back around.
“Ah. I thought you’d lost another battle with food.”
I stop mid-stride. “That was one time, over eight years ago!”
He keeps walking, head high and shoulders squared, each step imbued with the innate grace of a man who knows he’s at the top of the pheromonal food chain.
I definitely don’t spend a few seconds mesmerized by the muscles playing beneath the bronzed skin of his back.
Equally unimpressive are his tight, rhythmically flexing glutes beneath black swim shorts, long as fuck legs, and perfectly carved calves.
Yawn. So boring.
A low chuckle floats back to me. “Best Thanksgiving ever. Like having a gremlin at the dinner table.”
Old embarrassment resurfaces, kindling flames in my cheeks. I’d been so nervous that day, only the second time I’d been surrounded by the intimidating, ultra-famous Ashburn family. And unlike my first encounter, there hadn’t been a wedding giving me an excuse to fade into the background.
It hadn’t mattered that everyone was welcoming and kind—besides River and Olive—or that the atmosphere was relaxed. My hands still shook so badly I could barely eat.
When Eva Sullivan, whose music helped me through one of the worst periods of my life, smiled at me and asked me to pass the butter, I completely glitched. The forkful of stuffing I’d been guiding carefully to my mouth had jerked violently, spraying its gravy-coated contents all over my chest.
“Should we head back to the Lodge so you can tell Claudia you’ve made a mistake?”
I backpedal from the memory, emerging in the present to see River standing at a bend in the path ahead. He stares back at me with a smirk, but the self-satisfied glint in his eyes is missing. They’re disturbingly blank, a muddy whiskey instead of their usual amber gold.
As though the observation pulls a veil from my eyes, I see him. His shoulders sit unusually high, muscles bunched with tension. Deep shadows rest beneath his eyes. Lines of strain bracket his mouth and carve a valley between his eyebrows.
In the two years since I saw him last, he looks like he’s aged ten.
Before my brain can intervene, my stupid mouth blurts, “What happened to you?”
His eyes flare, then narrow. Without their typical sparkle, the effect sends a shiver down my spine. Muscles coil all over his half naked body, and then he’s stalking back toward me with determined strides.
My primal brain bleats danger! abort! run!
But I’ve never been great at listening to that voice, so I plant my hands on my hips and wait.
He halts inches away, battering my sensitive nose with a subtle (and totally revolting) combination of salt, citrus, and cedar.
I ward off another memory, one so incongruent with the present it belongs in a different lifetime altogether.
River’s gaze zeros in on my neck, jaw working like he’s chewing on the idea of squeezing it. I swallow reflexively. It’s painful, the kind that burns your esophagus and feels like swallowing glass.
Because I have no sense of self-preservation, I snap, “What’s your problem?”
His eyes lift. They’re still weirdly vacant, but at least they’re not homicidal.
“Whatever they’re paying you, I’ll double it.”
I squint at him, baffled. “Paying me? What are you talking about?”
“Don’t play dumb.”
His insinuation sinks in and pulls a harsh laugh from my throat. “You think your family is paying me to spy on you?” I shake my head in disgust. “Just when I think you can’t be any more self-centered, you prove me wrong.”
He shifts even closer. So close the fine hairs on my arms lift like tiny proximity alarms.
“Then prove me wrong. How did you get a residency here?”
Something inside me cracks. Between one second and the next, the reasonable, mature woman disappears. Animal instinct takes over. I need him out of my space rightfuckingnow.
Slapping my hands to his rock-hard chest, I push with all my might.
He barely sways.
“Are you… shoving me?”
He sounds surprised, a little confused, and not at all threatened. My reply is a hiss through clenched teeth. Head down, I dig in my heels and keep pushing, and he keeps not moving—the absolute bastard.
His chest shakes under my hands. “A for effort. You’re really putting your back into it.”
A scream pools in my throat, bleeding into my voice. “You think this is funny? Looming over me like a tacky villain and trying to intimidate me? Well, it’s not fucking funny. It’s gross. You’re gross.”
“If I’m so gross, why are you stroking my nipple?”
I’m not stroking a damn thing, but the ridiculous suggestion excises the last of my common sense. Grabbing the nearest nipple—of course it’s one of those small, perfect ones—I twist it. He yelps, jumping backward and cupping the offended area.
“What the hell, woman!”
I bare my teeth. “I was hoping it was an off switch.”
If I weren’t so pissed, I might laugh at River’s expression of shock. But I’m past the point of no return.
I jab a finger toward his face. “Listen carefully, your highness. I’m here because a major publisher is interested in a four-book series from me, but they want to see a draft of book two before moving forward.
I’m not some nepo baby who can frolic at my leisure, swinging my dick and a paintbrush.
I need a fucking break so I can finish this book.
I’ve earned this. So if you have a problem with me being here, you can leave. I’m not going anywhere.”
The ringing in my ears fades, ambient sounds replacing it. My sawing breaths. Rustling leaves. Buzzing insects. My vision blurs. When I blink, something drips down my face, followed by multiple somethings. I’m mortified to realize I’m leaking tears.
Turning my back to River, I wipe my face roughly. But the tears keep coming. “Shit, shit.”
“Ruin.” His voice is disturbingly soft, the normally frigid rapids warm.
“Don’t think you’ve hurt my feelings. I’m an angry crier. And for the thousandth time, stop calling me that.”
When my eyeball malfunction is under control, I tilt my head back and stare into the trees, searching for an external source of strength. A floating leaf, a twerking squirrel, anything.
Because I’m tapped out.
I could blame losing my shit on a lot of things—a perfect storm of exhaustion and overwhelm, the trip triggering memories and grief, River being River—but the truth is he landed a solid hit to a deep, festering wound.
Since the day I received word I’d been accepted for this summer’s program, I’ve been grappling with the fear that I don’t belong here. That my acceptance was a fluke. That I’m a fraud. Over the last few weeks, I considered pulling out a hundred times.
In some ways, it would be a relief to let go. To stop trying, fighting, striving. To give up the dream I’ve had since my seventh-grade class took a field trip to the public library.
But I can’t. Won’t. I’m so close—closer than I ever thought I’d be. And if I give up, I’m certain some essential part of me will die.
Even if I fail in the end, I have to try.
For Teddy.