Chapter Four
Wyatt
“What is this?”
I point at the pair of gloves Acca tosses over the counter along with the rest of my items. I know the cunning old woman loves making money, but how is she going to explain tossing a pair of small gloves onto my pile?
“Gloves, don’t you have eyes?”
I pick them up and study them. They are a couple of sizes too small for me and would barely fit three of my fingers.
The only person with a hand this small is…
“Stop meddling,” I growl at Acca, who doesn’t bat an eye at my tone.
While the scowl I give her would send most people scurrying back to the door,, it barely shakes her.
“You sent her to me yesterday, knowing full well I don’t like people on my property. ”
“You didn’t send her off like you’ve done with the others,” she challenges, holding my gaze until neither of us wavers, and then she laughs.
“Now, be a good boy and toss those into the bag. Something tells me our little conservationist is going to need them, and we can’t have those pretty fingers getting too cold. ”
“I’m sure she’ll pack her own pair of gloves and doesn’t need a meddling old woman packing another for her.”
“Twenty bucks says she forgets them.”
I shake my head as I pull out my wallet to pay. “You don’t know this girl, Acca. How can you predict what she will and won’t forget?”
“I’ve been on this earth long enough to have a great read on people. Twenty bucks says she forgets her gloves.”
“Fine,” I say, tossing the damned things into the bag. “You just made me pay sixty bucks for something she doesn’t need. That’s damn expensive for a pair of work gloves, if you ask me.”
“I didn’t.” She grins at me as I gather my stuff to leave.
“Take care of my dog, old lady!” I grunt on my way out.
I load everything into the truck and drive ten minutes to Sylvie’s townhouse. She comes rushing out of the door before I’ve even parked, wild strawberry hair catching the sun as she scrambles into the passenger’s seat.
“Hi, it’s cold,” she whispers, blowing into her cupped hands before splaying her fingers over the heater vents. “Sorry. You’re probably used to this and barely feel it.”
“Where are your gloves?”
“Oh, I think I left them in Acca’s 4-wheeler yesterday. Can we grab them on the way?”
I shake my head at that cunning old woman. With a sigh, I reach into the back and produce the pair that Acca bullied me into buying. “Here, don’t lose these.”
“You bought me a pair,” she beams up at me, those blue eyes bright, and it takes everything in me to look back at the road.
The ride to the harbor passes with her warming her hands.
I question the wisdom of taking her away for a night or two in the wild, but I can’t exactly turn back now, not with the excitement I can see in her eyes.
I force my eyes forward and my thoughts where they belong—on the trip, on the provisions I’ve packed, on anything except the way she looks in the morning light. It doesn’t entirely work.
I park the truck and climb out to load all our supplies onto the fishing boat.
The owner is a grumpy, sea-worn old man I’ve worked with a dozen times before.
He works the boat with his grandson, a fresh-faced teenager who keeps stealing glances at a completely oblivious Sylvie.
She, in turn, seems fascinated by the boat as I continue working.
“The boat is bigger than I expected!” There is an awed look on her face as she looks around, eyes bright with excitement. “Hey, why can’t we just rent a boat and go ourselves instead of hitching a ride from fishermen?” she asks, keeping her voice low so it doesn’t carry to the others.
I don’t hide my amusement at that. She’s done her research on the sea lions—I’ll give her that—but she clearly didn’t spend much time on the logistics of getting to them.
. “Even going between islands out here is never routine, and the island we’re going to is further out and has no harbor.
We can’t dock a boat there overnight. We have to be dropped off. ”
“They’ll just leave us out there? With no way to get back?”
A smirk pulls at my mouth. “Having a change of heart?”
“No,” she says, lifting her chin. “I mean, no. I’m not having a change of anything.”
“You know,” I drawl, leaning against a post to watch her.
“Staying on the island is dangerous because the Bering Sea is one of the most treacherous stretches of water in the world. Even in summer, the weather can turn in an instant. You understand what you’re agreeing to by going on this excursion? ”
“You’re not going to scare me out of this trip,” she says with a glare, and then she steps past me and heads toward the boat. I try not to watch her, but goddamn, she’s the most intriguing thing I’ve seen in years. So goddamned sexy even when she’s irritated.
I watch her the entire boat ride, studying every expression that crosses that gorgeous face as we cut through mostly calm water.
She’s nervous—I can see it—but she holds it together, keeps her chin up, and doesn’t complain once.
When we reach the far island, I help her off the boat and into the small inflatable boat we’ll use to travel the short distance from the fishing boat to the shore.
“See you in three days,” the grandson calls, waving at us as I start to paddle us toward shore.
“Three days?” Sylvie’s wide eyes whip to me. “They won’t come to check on us every day? What if something happens?”
“Like what?” I challenge.
She opens her mouth, and closes it. “I know there aren’t snakes or scorpions out here,” she says, and there’s a hint of self-awareness in her voice that makes me want to smile.
“I just—it’s different, reading about a place and actually standing in it.
What if there’s a storm? What if someone gets hurt? ”
“Then we handle it,” I say, simply. “That’s why you’re out here with me.”
Something in her shoulders settles at that. Good.
“We’re here,” I say when we stop. I climb out first, drag the inflatable clear of the water, then take her hand to help her out.
I unload the rest of our gear then drag the boat to a small inlet where I tie it down.
I glance at my watch and realize that it’s already getting late.
Sylvie’s nerves seem to calm down as she helps set up camp.
She doesn’t say much as we have dinner, other than to ask about plans for tomorrow.
“Get some rest,” I tell her after dinner. “We have a long day tomorrow.”
“Now?” she asks, gesturing at the sky. “It looks like four in the afternoon.”
“It’s after eight,” I assure her. “We need to be up by six.”
“But it’s so bright outside. How can anyone sleep when it’s basically daytime?”
“You’ll get used to it.”
“I really don’t think I will. I can’t sleep with the lights on—I never have.”
I give her a look. She gives me one back. “Try,” I tell her.
I hear the rustle of her settling into her sleeping bag as she turns away, and I lie back and stare at the roof of the tent and question every decision that led me here—like the wisdom of bringing one large tent instead of two smaller ones.
I don’t do this. I don’t bring strangers onto my excursions, don’t share my space with them, definitely don’t lie awake in a tent with a woman I can’t stop thinking about.
And I cannot stop thinking about her. Her scent is everywhere in this small space, that amber-and-citrus warmth that has no business being this distracting.
Every small sound she makes—the shift of fabric, the soft exhale—pulls at something I’ve kept very deliberately locked down for a very long time.
I’m as hard as steel. And I’ve been hard since she climbed into my truck this morning.
It makes no fucking sense to have this painful of an erection when the woman is covered to her chin, but her presence alone is enough to send static heat sparking over my skin.
I consider going out for a walk to cool down, but I can’t leave unless she’s asleep.
So I remain silent in the quiet evening, hoping the distant sound of waves will lull her to sleep.
“Wyatt?”
I close my eyes. She has no idea what the sound of her voice does to me in the dark.
“What is it?” I ask, keeping my voice even.
“How long have you had Sabaak?”
I almost smile. Of all the things she could ask. “Four years,” I say. “Found him as a pup. Someone had left him tied to a post at the harbor in the middle of January.”
“That’s awful,” she says, and I can hear genuine feeling in it. “He’s lucky you found him.”
“We found each other,” I say—and then stop, because that’s more than I intended to say.
A beat of quiet. Then: “Can I ask you something else?”
“You’re going to whether I say yes or not.”
A soft laugh—low and warm in the dim tent. It does something to my chest I don’t examine too carefully.
“Tell you what,” I say, pushing up to sit. “I’ve got a deck of cards. You can ask your questions, and I’ll answer the ones I feel like answering.”
The rustling stops. “Deal.”
I catch the rustling and some shuffling before she unzips her sleeping bag and sits cross-legged across from me in nothing but a long T-shirt. I try not to stare at her legs when she adjusts her position. “I’m actually great at card games. Promise me you won’t be hurt if I beat you.”
“We’ll see.” I grab the cards from the side pocket of my bag and deal by the long evening light.
Her hair is loose around her shoulders, and I keep my eyes on the cards.
Under the soft light, her freckles seem more defined somehow—each one distinct, like a constellation I want to trace with my thumb and watch her face for a reaction.
I shake off these thoughts and deal the cards, placing seven face down in front of us. She picks up her cards and arranges them in her hand before glancing at me. I don’t intend to win, so I’m not exactly disappointed when I realize my hand is weak.