Chapter 9 Hutch
Hutch
We made it to the campsite and set up an hour ago, and we’ve been on the hiking trail for all of ten minutes, and she’s already complaining. However, judging by that conversation with her mom, I’m not surprised.
At first, I’d found it slightly amusing that she was forced to have a conversation she obviously didn’t want to, especially with me sitting next to her.
But as the call went on, it was clear that Ginger and her mother had a strained relationship.
Obviously, I have zero idea what a healthy mother-daughter relationship should look like since I’m neither a mother nor a daughter.
Still, after witnessing that exchange, I’m starting to understand the woman walking along in front of me a little bit more.
I’m starting to think Ginger and I aren’t that far apart. I think maybe she’s got some demons too.
My brothers would say I camouflage mine with tequila and sticking my dick in anything that moves.
And Ginger? She hides hers just as well.
Her scars—likely courtesy of her peach of a mother—are buried beneath haughty looks and impeccably tailored outfits. That, and fear. Fear of what, I’m not sure. But it’s a safe bet control is one of the things she clings to for dear life.
What I wouldn’t give to see her let go. Be real. Even for five minutes.
By looking at her, it’s not hard to tell that Ginger Westbrook is not outdoorsy.
She trudges up ahead of me, her heart-shaped ass in those little beige shorts holding all my attention.
The bounce of each of her cheeks—firm, yet soft—is like a siren call straight to my cock.
I imagine peeling the shorts from her body, exposing every delicious inch of what I remember is underneath.
She’s curvy as all hell and her copper waves bouncing against her back in time with her steps are begging me to wrap my fist in them.
Despite what her mom says about the so-called bags under her eyes—total bullshit—I’ve been checking her out for the past two hours.
And that comment about gaining weight? If anything, she’s never looked sexier.
I’ve only been around Ginger a handful of times since we met less than a year ago, but she still manages to look absolutely stunning every single time.
“Is this even a trail?” she asks, grunting out the words as she bends to swat at something on her knee. “I swear this isn’t even a trail.”
“Did you somehow miss the marker back there?” I ask with a hint of amusement, my thumbs hooked in the straps of my pack on my back. The trail isn’t even dense through here and she acts like we’re in the middle of nowhere.
Her cheeky attitude is back in full force, and she moves with that easy confidence I’ve gotten used to.
My eyes track every inch of exposed skin—her shoulders, arms, legs.
The white tank and tight biker shorts hug her curves in all the right ways, showing off a downright mouthwatering hourglass figure—especially from behind.
She’s got an ass I’d love to sink my teeth into.
She sighs. “Well, do you even know where we’re going? It’s nothing but overgrown trees and spider webs out here.”
Spotting something that looks suspiciously like a bug in her hair, I take two long strides to catch up to her. She hears me close in on her from behind at the same time I reach up and touch her hair.
She lets out a yelp and jumps to the side, yanking her head away from my touch.
I cock an amused brow at her, and I can tell by the rapid rise and fall of her chest that I’ve startled her. She’s jumpy as fuck, per usual.
I let out a chuckle, shaking my head. “Easy scary spice, you had a bug in your hair.”
I expect some kind of snarky reply, but instead, her eyes go wide, and she squeals, turning in a circle, swiping her hands over her hair frantically. “Did you get it?” she shrieks. “Was it a tick?”
I ease away from her, watching as she brushes her hands down her body, checking for any sign of insects.
“Tick-free, California,” I say, gesturing for her to keep moving forward on the trail.
She eyes me for a second, like she’s not sure I’m telling the truth. “Thank you,” she says after a big, calming inhale.
I let out a low whistle, casting a glance at her. “Was that painful?”
She narrows her eyes at me, running a final hand over her hair and dropping a hand to a cocked-out hip. “Was what painful?”
“Thanking me.”
Her eyes harden and she purses her lips a bit before she seems to realize I’m screwing with her. “A little, yes,” she returns, voice clipped, but her lips tip up a bit.
I nod and try to force the amusement out of my voice. “Not much of an outdoor girl, I take it?”
She shakes back all that gorgeous copper hair, and the action makes her tits sway a bit. I drag my eyes back to her face, grateful she doesn’t seem to notice. She’d probably kick me in the junk if she caught me checking them out.
“Not really, no.”
I nod as she turns and continues up the trail.
“How much farther?” she asks, tossing me a look over her shoulder.
A low chuckle rumbles out of me. “We just got started.”
She sighs and whirls on me, dropping her hands on her hips and making me stop short. If I hadn’t been paying attention, I’d have ploughed right into the back of her.
“I know that. I only wanted to know how far we’re going. God, can’t you be cooperative for five seconds?”
I cock a brow at her, loving how easily she gets riled up. Something about the flash in those icy blue eyes and the light pink flush to her creamy skin gets my blood moving.
I shrug. “It’s a couple of miles to the top.”
Her eyes widen, and I watch her throat work over a swallow.
“You telling me you can’t walk a couple of miles?” I’m completely goading her.
She rolls her eyes and dramatically spins back around, kicking up dirt from the red, hard-packed trail as she turns and continues walking.
We’re quiet for a few minutes while the trail meanders through the trees. The morning fog has long burned off, but the trail is still damp. The dappled light from the canopy above gives everything a lush green hue and muffles the sound of anything but nature.
When I turn my attention back to Ginger, she’s got her phone out, holding it above her head, I assume, looking for a signal. My mind drifts back to her phone call from earlier.
She’d been relaxed—well, as relaxed as Ginger can be, I guess, since she’s always a little high-strung—but when her mom had called, she’d gone from that to on edge, her posture deflating the more time she’d spent being talked at by the woman.
Because that’s what it had been. Her mother talking over her and interrupting, tearing her down.
Ginger had hardly said a word. Not that I’d blamed her.
Had I been in her shoes, I would have immediately shut that shit down.
I’d even contemplated telling her that, but knowing her, she’d probably tell me to mind my own business.
Watching her now, I wonder if she’s worried about her kids like her mother seemed to be, or if she’s so addicted to technology that she can’t go an hour without checking her phone. Either way, it cements for me how high-maintenance this woman is.
A small smile tilts up my lips when I remember how appalled she’d been last summer when she realized I lived in my 1980 Vanagon Westie. She had looked around with brows pulled low, her eyes nothing but pools of skeptical sky blue.
“So, where’s your house?” She looks around, then brings her gaze back to mine.
“You’re looking at it.”
Her eyebrow nearly launches off her face, she cocks it so hard. “You live in a garage?”
“No.” I raise my chin in the direction of the van. “I live in that.”
She gives me a withering look. “You can’t be serious.”
Dropping my eyes back to the fire I’m stoking, I shrug. “Why?”
She scoffs; irritation clear in her voice. “It’s a fucking van.”
“Perceptive.”
“But…” she trails off, clearly at a loss, “what do you do in the winter?”
Adding another log to the fire, I bite back a smile, keeping my expression blank, and lift a shoulder. “Build an igloo.”
I steal a glance her way and she rolls those gorgeous blues, hands on her wide, grabbable hips. “God, you’re annoying.”
Straightening up, I cross my arms over my chest, keeping my eye on the fire. “I pull the van into the shop.”
She makes a small sound of disbelief in the back of her throat, and I flick my gaze in her direction.
“Why not build a house? Throw a bed in there? All this land? Seems like a waste if you ask me.”
I shrug. “Guess it’s a good thing I didn’t ask you then, huh?”
I don’t care what people think about the way I live. I never have. In fact, I find it amusing that she seems to care so much while trying to pretend she doesn’t.
She huffs, throwing up a hand. “Whatever. I’m gonna go find Wren.”
I chuckle now, remembering how she’d stomped away, giving me a great view of her ass, kind of like the one I have now.
“What’s funny?” she asks over her shoulder, not stopping to turn around.
“Nothing,” I say.
It’s another twenty minutes or so when we break through the tree line into a small clearing. Ginger heads toward the edge of the ridge and stops. I come up alongside her as she lets out a soft gasp.
“Wow,” she breathes out, her head on a swivel, chest heaving slightly from the steep ascent.
“Worth the hike, then?” I ask, shucking off my pack and unzipping it to grab the water bottle I stashed. The water is warm, but it’s fresh.
She drops her gaze to the water bottle I extend to her, giving me a look. “I don’t share drinks.”
“You’ve had my cock in your mouth twice and you’re worried about sharing a water bottle?” I ask, deadpan.
She has the audacity to look offended. Her eyes dip down my body before her creamy skin flushes from forehead to chest and I chuckle. “Don’t worry. It’s still sealed.”
She shifts her feet, glancing at my outstretched hand. “Thanks,” she says, finally taking and uncapping it.