Chapter 10 Hutch
Hutch
Walking behind Ginger gives me a great view of her legs on the way down the trail.
I can’t see her ass anymore thanks to my flannel, but I’ve got a crystal-clear mental image of her riding me in nothing but that shirt, and—yeah.
I’m bricked up. Again.This woman seriously messes with my head—both of them.
A twig snaps off to our left, and she stops short, shoulders tensing.
“Did you hear that?” she whispers, glancing back.
I nod. “Probably just a squirrel.”
“What if it was a bear?” Her voice tightens.
“It won’t bother us,” I say, keeping my tone easy.
She edges closer without realizing it. “Are you serious right now?” she whisper-shouts.
“Don’t worry, California. I’ll protect you.”
She plants a hand on her hip. “Oh, really? How many bears have you fought off?”
“None.” I grin. “Choked a couple cougars, though.”
She scoffs, rolls her eyes, and stomps off.
I chuckle and fall in behind her—just in time to notice how stiff her steps are. She’s hurting. Her shoes are probably designer but useless out here. She’s slipped more than once, and every time, my chest seizes.
Back at the van, I gesture to a chair.
“Sit,” I tell her before moving around the back of the vehicle and opening the rear door.
Digging around the small closet that holds a few jackets, some T-shirts, and other shit, I find the small first aid kit.
Ginger’s still standing there, holding her phone up, trying like hell to get a signal when I return.
“Put your ass in the chair, California,” I tell her, pulling the other one over so that it’s across from the one I want her to sit in.
She doesn’t budge. I sigh, set the first aid kit down, and step forward.
Before she can react, I pluck the phone from her hand and slip it into my back pocket.
“Hey—” she protests, brows shooting up.
“You weren’t gonna sit while holding that thing,” I say, already turning back to the kit and dropping into the chair. “You can have it back when I’m done.”
She stares at me like she’s unsure whether to slap or thank me.
I unzip the kit and keep my eyes on what I’m doing. “Just sit down and let me look at your feet.”
“My feet?” she echoes, nose scrunched.
I glance up, catch the skepticism in her face, but there’s curiosity there too.
“You’re gonna have a shit ton of blisters if you don’t already. So sit the hell down and let me check.”
Still, she doesn’t move.
“I have no problem making you,” I add, without looking up.
There’s no heat in my tone, and I try to tell myself that taking care of her feet is for practicality’s sake—basic first aid. But the truth is, I hate seeing her hurt. Even a little. Even if she’d kick my ass for caring.
That’s when the suspicion kicks in. “You probably have a weird foot fetish or some sick shit and this is your ploy to get a look at them.”
I shake my head, laughing. “If I had a thing for busted hiking feet, maybe.”
But whatever’s driving her, curiosity or pain, it works. She finally lowers herself into the chair.
“You didn’t have to take my phone,” she mutters.
I huff a laugh. “You ought to have that thing surgically attached to your hand, the way you gawk at it.”
Her voice comes out quiet. “I haven’t heard from the boys yet today.”
That shuts me up. I hadn’t expected that.
I clear my throat, trying not to feel like a dick. “Your ex a shitty dad or something?”
She blinks, like I caught her off guard. “No. Peter’s a great dad.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
When she doesn’t make a snide remark, I glance up at her, stopping my rummage for supplies. Her face is soft when her gaze meets mine, and there’s fire there—but it’s not sharp. It’s aching.
“You don’t know what it’s like,” she says quietly, “to be a parent.”She swallows hard. “I’ve spent almost six years raising two tiny, identical humans. And I’m doing the best I can. If that means checking my phone more than I should, then...yeah. Sometimes that’s what it looks like.”
I drop my gaze from hers and grit my teeth, hating that her words get under my skin. She’s right. I have zero idea what that’s like.
“I don’t expect you to understand,” she murmurs, and for a second, I think that’s it.
But then she keeps going, softer this time, like the words are slipping out before she can stop them.
“Have you ever stayed up all night, pacing the floor, because your baby’s struggling to breathe with a respiratory infection?
Or watched your toddler take their first wobbly steps and prayed they wouldn’t fall and crack their head open? ”
I shake my head once, not looking up. “Can’t say I have.”
“Have you ever let go of a bike seat, knowing they’ll fall but needing them to try anyway? Sent your kid off to preschool with your stomach in knots, scared they’ll sit alone at lunch? That someone will be mean to them?”
“Nope.”
She lets out a breath. “It’s just...different. Something you don’t get unless you’ve been there.”
I inhale deeply, trying to clear the suffocated feeling from my chest. Godamnit. Not here. Not now.
She lets out a long sigh before she bumps my foot with hers. “Now what?”
“Here,” I say, motioning for her to lift her foot.
“You don’t have to do that,” she says, her voice laced with annoyance. “I can take care of myself.”
“Just give me your foot, California.”
She’s hesitant at first but lifts it enough for me to pull it into my lap. As I undo the lace, she groans.
“Something hurt?” I ask, forcing my eyes to stay on her shoes and not travel up those thick, creamy thighs.
She shakes her head in my peripheral, shoulders slumping as she takes in her red-dirt caked shoes. “These shoes were brand new.”
“Well, I’d say they’re broken in now.” I loosen the laces before carefully working the shoe off the foot she was limping on the worst.
She winces a bit but makes no noise other than that.
I work my finger under the top of her sock and carefully draw it off her foot.
I’ve never been into feet, but something about the baby pink toenail polish on the tips of her toes has my heart rate kicking up.
Maybe it’s the intimacy of the moment, or maybe it’s the fact that she’s not bitching at me for once, but either way, it’s… different.
As I suspected, she’s got a good-sized blister on the side of the pad of her foot, right below her big toe, and one on the top of her second toe that’s popped and oozing.
She’s also got one hell of an angry mark on the back of her heel.
Had she gone much further in those shoes, all those spots would have been bleeding within minutes.
“The other one this bad, too?” I murmur and rip open an antiseptic packet before dabbing it over the open blister.
She hisses out a breath but shakes her head. “This one is the worst, I think.”
I nod and set to work cleaning and applying ointment to the sores before putting Band-Aids over them. I carefully set her foot on the decking and reach for her other foot. She lets me remove her shoe and sock but stays quiet as I inspect her other foot.
This one isn’t nearly as bad, no blisters yet, but there will be soon if she puts those shoes back on.
“You got other shoes? Flip flops or something?” I ask, setting her foot down.
“Yeah, slides,” she says before moving to stand.
I put a hand on her shoulder and keep her in place, standing up. “Tell me where. This decking is full of splinters. That’s the last thing those feet need right now.”
Her lashes flutter a bit as she watches me, eyes cautious. “They’re in the smallest suitcase, right-hand side.”
I nod, open the van’s side door, and haul the suitcase onto the picnic table.
Unzipping it, I find everything folded neatly into packing cubes.
Like she said, her shoes are tucked in with three other pairs, all in their own cube.
I pull out a pair of expensive-looking leather slides, walk them over, and hand them to her.
“Thanks,” she says, taking them from me and sliding them onto both her feet.
“Should probably rest your feet a bit.” I glance at my watch. It’s already after seven. “You hungry?”
She stands with a nod.
“Let’s go grab some food,” I tell her while I pick up the empty Band-Aid wrappers, and she repacks the ointment before crossing over to close her suitcase. “There’s a good diner not too far from here.”
“Let me change first.”
“What’s wrong with what you’ve got on?” I ask, not willing to admit I really fucking like seeing her in my flannel.
Looking down to take in her clothing, she meets my gaze with a withering look. “Not all of us live in B.F.E., and chop wood all day.”
I arch a brow at her as she indicates the flannel hanging off her frame. “Is that what you think I do?”
She cocks her head at me, those blue eyes sparkling in the fading daylight. “Isn’t it? You’ve got that whole lumberjack vibe going on. You live in the woods like some reclusive Paul Bunyan. You clearly own a flannel. I’m surprised you don’t wear suspenders.”
I lift a brow at her.
“You know, like the Brawny paper towel guy? Only way more annoying.”
I huff out a laugh and turn toward the van.
“Come on, California. Let’s go get some food. Maybe it’ll help your mood. You haven’t eaten much today. You’re like Hank and Wren’s girls when they haven’t had milk in two hours. And I, for one, am starving.”
I rummage around in the back of the van for a new shirt that isn’t covered in sweat.
She watches as I shove my shorts down and step out, grabbing for my jeans.
Her eyes linger on the fabric covering my cock.
She tries to hide it, but I see the heat there—the same look she gave me the first time she saw my Prince Albert piercing and practically dropped to her knees like I was dessert.
“Holy shit,” she whispers, stunned. “You’re pierced?”
My grin is lazy. “Think you can take it?”
“You’re stripping, right out here in the open?” she asks, mouth agape, eyes moving around the surrounding area.
It’s secluded enough that no one can see me unless they walk right up on our campsite.
If I ever questioned whether or not she’s into me—I never have—I know the truth because as I step into my jeans and yank them up over my thighs and ass, her eyes track the movement before continuing a slow perusal up the rest of my body.
“Get changed,” I say, and that seems to snap her out of whatever dirty little thoughts were swirling through her mind, because she blinks twice, then nods resolutely and turns to unzip her suitcase.