Chapter Three
Sylvie
He said YES!
I’m grinning ear to ear as I return to Acca’s store and find her niece watching me with a look that she had no faith whatsoever in my ability to pull this off.
“You are sure the grizzly bear that lives at the base of Mount Moffett willingly agreed to leave his cave? On his own free will?”
I nod, smiling at the niece as I hand Acca her keys. “We’re leaving tomorrow,” I say, tucking my gloved fingers into the pockets of my jacket.
“Dammit!” the niece curses, and I watch in confusion as she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a crisp bill, begrudgingly passing it to Acca. “You win!”
“You guys made a bet?” I chuckle.
“Sure did,” the older woman says, snapping the bill from her niece’s fingers and sliding it into the front pocket of her apron.
“Wyatt has a reputation for running people off. Scientists, students, researchers—they come through every now and then, hoping he’ll show them around.
Most of the time, Sabaak chases them back to their cars before Wyatt even opens the door.
On a rare day, he might agree to take someone on a short excursion around the island itself.
But leave Adak entirely? Take someone off-island and overnight? Never.”
“Never!” the niece echoes.
“Then he must’ve been in an extremely good mood today,” I muse, but I’m met with blank stares from both women.
I chat a little longer with them, prying what I can about the mysterious grump.
Acca tells me his parents used to vacation on Adak Island when he was growing up—he was raised in Washington State.
When they were killed in a plane crash, leaving behind more wealth than he knew what to do with, he sold everything and came here—over anywhere else in the world.
This island was the closest thing to home he had left.
“If I had that kind of wealth, I would travel the world and not hole up on this island for sixteen years,” the niece comments, earning a smack on the shoulder.
“Not everyone finds fulfillment in worldly pleasures,” Acca says. “Some of us understand that it comes from within, from the richness of the relationships we form and the passions we pursue. If living here, away from all that noise, nourishes his soul, then why would he ever want for more?”
Acca’s words follow me as I walk to the inn for dinner. I try not to think about the stranger and his large dog, but they keep popping into my head. I wonder if he felt that charged silence between us in his kitchen and how he’d react if he knew the effects those hazel eyes have on me.
No. Focus. I have ten days and a thesis to save. I did not come to Adak Island to moon over a man built like a redwood tree.
The small restaurant at the inn is nearly empty when I arrive, just one couple seated in the corner chatting in low voices.
I immediately identify them as tourists when I pass them to grab a seat by the window.
Once I order my dinner, I sit back and pull out my phone to call my parents.
I should have done it the moment I landed, but I wanted to be settled first.
My father’s grinning face fills the screen, his wide smile drawing one of my own. “You made it. How is it?”
“Chilly,” I say, noting with some irony that he is at the beach, the sunset streaking the sky with color behind him. “The people here are wonderful. And I’ve already found a guide. Tomorrow, I’m heading out to a nearby island to observe a large colony of Steller sea lions. I’m so excited.”
“Is it safe?” Dad asks, his brown creasing the way it does when he’s trying not to sound worried.
“Completely,” I nod, mouthing thanks to the waitress when she sets my food down. “The man taking me knows this place better than anyone. I’m in good hands. I’ll be safe, I promise you.”
“Wonderful. Be careful, honey,” he says as he hands the phone to Mom, who spends the next twenty minutes lecturing me on safety.
I listen and start working my way through my dinner, assuring her of my safety between mouthfuls.
By the time she’s satisfied I won’t get lost in the wilderness, my plate is empty.
I end the call with several more assurances, set my phone down, and am just reaching for my jacket when a shadow falls over my table.
I look up to find two men. One of them is older with copper hair that falls around his shoulders and a smile that is as polite as a well-sharpened knife.
Behind him stands a large, bald man with tattooed forearms folded over his chest, expression flat.
“Sylvie,” the older man says. “Sorry, I couldn’t help but overhear your call. ”
Something cold moves through me at the sound of my name in his mouth. “How can I help you?”
“Pardon my manners,” the man says in a deep voice as he pulls back the chair across from mine and sits, uninvited. His associate remains standing. “My name is Brett Monteith.”
My hackles go up as I immediately recognize the name. What are the chances that I would run into someone from Monteith Real Estate Development? I don’t believe in coincidences—and Monteith isn’t a common name.
“How can I help you, Mr. Monteith?” I ask politely, keeping my voice level and my disdain tucked away.
“As I said, I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation. You see, I have children of my own—grown now, of course, with their own lives, but a parent always worries.”
“My parents have nothing to worry about?”
“Don’t they?” he muses, his tone turning razor sharp, but those eyes remain fixed on me. “When silly little girls think they know better than their elders, it’s a cause for worry. Leave the sea lions alone.”
It’s a thinly veiled threat, but it’s not like I didn’t expect to eventually run into someone from his company. I didn’t expect someone this senior. But he doesn’t scare me. Much.
“This island doesn’t belong to you,” I say, pushing back my chair and rising to my feet. “It’s not your place to decide what happens here.”
Those eyes flash with something cold before he smooths it over. “It would be a shame if something happened to you out there. Your parents would be heartbroken. They sound like lovely people.”
I glare at him. “Are you threatening me?”
“I’m speaking as a concerned…observer. The Alaskan wilderness is dangerous, and anything can happen.” He smiles. “Be safe, Sylvie!”
I walk away from the table and out of the inn. I barely feel the cold when it hits my face on the walk back to my townhouse. I’m still seething when I get ready for bed and the sharp edge of irritation remains at the base of my stomach even as I slide into the warmth of my blankets.
Men like Brett Monteith don’t intimidate me.
I grew up going to protests with my parents—stood on picket lines before I was tall enough to hold the signs properly.
I’ve watched my father face down developers twice the size of Monteith and never flinch.
A man who hides behind money and veiled warnings isn’t brave. He’s just loud.
I work myself into a nasty little temper, glaring at the white ceiling. Then, before I can stop it, my drifts to the shift to the handsome man I met today.
Wyatt Hudson.
The man had a deep, sexy voice that would work any woman out of her better judgment. I imagine it wouldn’t take long for that voice and those hazel eyes to get me to strip for him. The lilt in his voice carried a smooth quality to it that made it so seductive and sexy. And that body…
I sigh as I slide a hand under the blankets, trailing my fingers down my neck and over my breasts. I picture those long, calloused hands touching me, drawing slow circles over my nipples and making me arch into his touch.
It’s wrong. Christ, I know it’s wrong to fantasize about a stranger, but I can’t help myself.
He doesn’t know. He never has to know that it’s him I picture as I slide my hand beneath my old T-shirt and palm my breasts.
I squeeze them, pinching my nipples and imagining him doing it—his lips pressed to my ear, saying the most indecent things.
Things he’d do with me, to me, for me… My breath hitches as my nipples harden, turning sensitive.
“Wyatt,” I whisper, just to taste the weight of it. It’s perfect. I say it again, drawing my bottom lip between my teeth as my hand dips lower, sliding over my stomach and inching toward my center.
That body… Christ, what does a man have to do to be built like that?
The image comes back—Wyatt carrying those five crates out of the store like they weighed nothing.
Those arms shifting under that flannel shirt.
I bet he could lift me onto his kitchen counter without a second thought.
Shove himself between my thighs and press his hard length right where I ache.
And I do ache.
For a man I have no business wanting. But he’s not here to help ease the ache, but I am. I gasp softly as I slip my fingers between my folds, unsurprised to find myself already slick with arousal.
Do it.
I can almost hear that deep rugged voice hot in my ear, urging me to pleasure myself in ways he would if he were here.
It’s madness. It’s crazy but I do it, opening my legs wider and stroking at the sensitive bundle of nerves between my thighs.
I haven’t done this in a long time and never while thinking of someone real.
It’s strange, and it feels different. To have a face and a name in my head. To picture a body pressed against mine when I’ve never been touched by a man before. Even stranger is the fact that I can almost feel his breath against my skin and his voice in my ears.
Faster, baby.
“Yes,” I whimper, moving my fingers in quick, sure strokes, eyes fluttering closed as I moan.
It’s his deep, raspy growl I hear and feel against my skin as my body pulses with pleasure.
It’s those strong muscles I see when I close my eyes, buried in the memory of that warm, earthy scent that still lingers somehow at the back of my mind.
You’ll do everything I say?
“God, yes,” I cry out, my hips rising from the bed. I stroke harder, chasing the edge I’ve found dozens of times before but never like this—never this sharp, never this consuming.
“Wyatt!”
My lips part with a sob. My brain goes soft, and my body hums with the promise of a euphoric climax. I push harder, stroking my clit faster until I’m panting and sobbing for a release only that stranger can offer me.
The orgasm comes with enough power to arch my back, my whole body trembling as delicious pleasure rolls through me in long, pulsing waves. My core clenches, leaving me heaving and shaking.
It’s his name on my lips when I come apart.
Those gorgeous and intense hazel eyes I think of when pleasure explodes through me until I’m wrung out.
My hand drops to my stomach, and the tremble in my thighs fades to tiny spasms. I try to open my eyes, knowing I should get out of bed and… do something.
Pack. Right, I need to pack for tomorrow. Better to have everything ready before tomorrow, so I don’t forget anything.
I try to move, shift my legs over the side of the bed, but my body won’t cooperate. As do my eyes when I try to open them. Instead, I choose to sink deeper into the warm covers.
It’s his face I see last before everything fades.