Chapter 14 Ginger
Ginger
I wake to early-morning light filtering through the roof vents in broken patches. Despite the two-inch mattress and the persistent thrum of arousal between my legs, I’d actually slept well after crawling back into the bunk last night.
When I returned from calming Tate down, I’d braced myself to pump the brakes on whatever was about to happen. But Hutch hadn’t pushed. He asked if everything was okay, I said it was, and even though I’m sure he would’ve been fine picking up where we left off, I just…couldn’t.
Tate had a nightmare, and I wasn’t there. I was hours away, wrapped up in my own need for space, and he needed his mom. I know I’m being dramatic—no parent can be everywhere at once—but the guilt still claws at me.
Thankfully, the blankets Hutch gave me were the perfect kind of heavy, and they worked like a weighted hug. It didn’t take long before sleep swallowed me whole.
Now, I push up onto my elbows, straining to hear any sound from outside. I need to get dressed, but that’s easier said than done in this sardine can. Stripping in front of Hutch—especially after last night—is a hard pass.
Because let’s be honest: my vagina is still on high alert, and part of me is stupidly disappointed we didn’t finish what we started.
Which, frankly, doesn’t bode well for me.
If he so much as crooks a finger at me again, I’ll probably roll over, legs up, panting like a bitch in heat. Shame? Never heard of her.
I shake the thought off and tune in. There’s the faint scrape of metal, followed by the unmistakable scent of coffee.
My entire body perks up.
If there’s a single cup of coffee within ten miles, I’ll sniff it out. And after last night’s near miss, I need a whole pot and a caffeine IV to function.
I inch forward and peek over the edge of the bunk. The lower bed is empty, the covers pulled up like he’d made it in a hurry.
I climb down from the bunk, careful not to smack a knee or wake the entire campground in the process.
My bag’s still on the captain’s chair, and I dig out fresh underwear, a bra, leggings, and a sweatshirt—something warm, because it’s chilly even inside the van.
Being this close to the water, there’s probably a layer of fog hanging over everything.
I change quickly, then shove my feet into my shoes.
After unraveling the bun I slept in, I rake my fingers through my curls and check my reflection in the visor mirror—the one we half-cleaned yesterday. It’s not great, but it’ll do.
Sliding the side door open, I step into the cool morning air, the scent of ocean and coffee hitting me at once.
Hutch turns to look at me over his shoulder from where he stands at the picnic table.
“Morning,” he says, his voice gravelly and low.
What is it about a man’s voice first thing in the morning that is so damn sexy?
“Morning.” Sliding the door closed behind me, I tuck my hands into the sleeves of my sweatshirt.
Hutch turns back to the table, and I take a minute to appreciate the view.
And damn is it a nice one. He’s dressed in a light gray tank top and a wet suit, the top folded over so the empty sleeves hang at his sides.
On his feet are a pair of black slides. His damp hair is pulled up in a knot, and I notice the yellow and blue surfboard leaned against the front of the Vanagon.
“Coffee?” he asks, gesturing to an aluminum percolator and two tin mugs on the table.
Nodding, I move to stand next to him. “Sure, thanks,” I say and watch as he pours the steaming brew into a mug, then passes it to me.
“Cream and sugar are there if you want them.”
I shuffle over to where he’s put out a little coffee station and take in the small, two-burner cook stove on the table.
A metal pot with a lid sits on one burner, and on the other, a small frying pan with scrambled eggs sizzling away in it.
I add a little cream to my coffee and pick up the spoon he must have used for his, stirring it. I nod.
“Food smells good,” I say and take a sip of my coffee. It’s rich and delicious, and I can’t believe it’s camping coffee. I wrap my hands around the mug, letting my eyes roam over him.
“Thanks. I wasn’t sure what you preferred, so I made eggs and oatmeal.” He stirs the eggs, then glances up at me.
I shrug. “I’ll eat whatever you don’t want.”
“Your pick,” he says, cutting the heat on the eggs and picking up his coffee to take a sip. I notice he doesn’t take it black.
“Big decision,” he says, and I expect my hackles to raise after our conversation yesterday, but when I look back up at him, his expression is teasing.
I lean over and lift the lid on the pot. “I’ll take the oatmeal,” I say, replacing the lid and sitting across from him before taking another sip of my coffee.
He digs around in a Tupperware bin on the bench beside his knee and pulls out a second spoon before passing it over. Then he lifts the pot and plunks it in front of me. “Careful. It might be hot.”
“Did you surf this morning?” I ask, taking the lid off.
It doesn’t even register that I’m eating straight from the pot until I’ve already dug into the creamy oats and taken my first bite. It’s surprisingly delicious and warms me right up. They’re brown sugar and cinnamon, and the moan I let out at the first bit is almost sexual.
“Not many waves on this beach. Mostly paddled around a bit. Waters cold as fuck.”
I let out a chuckle and look out at the water in the distance. “I bet.”
“You surf?” he asks, taking another sip of his coffee.
I shake my head. “No. Tried to a couple times when I was younger. But I was a lanky kid, horrible balance,” I tell him. “I was a bit topheavy.”
His eyes flick to my chest before moving back to meet mine, the action heating my cheeks. “I can see that.”
Am I actually blushing right now? Kill me.
Grabbing a fork from where he found my spoon, he picks up the small frying pan and sits across from me.
Fork in hand, he scoops up a bite of eggs and shoves them in his mouth.
He holds his fork like a shovel, and I can’t help but smile a little.
Even if he is a grown man, it’s kind of cute.
Tate and Jordan eat their cereal and soup like that, and the familiarity is nice.
It dawns on me that I have no idea how old Hutch is. I know he’s younger than Hank and their brother Hudson, but I think older than all the girls. It seems like a weird question to ask, though, so I dig into my oats instead.
God, this is amazing,” I mumble around another bite. “I don’t think I’ll be able to eat it all, but I appreciate it.”
He nods, shoveling more eggs into his mouth.
We clean breakfast in an easy rhythm—washing dishes, packing food, securing the chairs and surfboard to the roof rack like we’ve done it a hundred times before.
While Hutch ties everything down, I throw my hair up, dab on a little concealer, and slather more hydrocortisone on the cluster of mosquito bites on my legs.
By the time he hops down from the roof, dressed in faded cargo shorts and a black T-shirt that hugs his arms a little too well, I’m ready for whatever the day brings.
“How are your feet?” Hutch asks, and the genuine concern on his face catches me off guard.
I look down at my feet and wiggle my toes in the soft lining of my Ultra mini Ugg boots.
“They feel okay this morning, although I’m not sure those shoes are a good idea for a while.”
He nods, closing the cook stove and turning to stash it in the storage compartment of the van. “I’d planned to hike a bit more today, but if your feet aren’t feeling up to it—”
“It’s okay, I can try the shoes,” I tell him.
He drops his gaze to my feet and grunts out what I think is a sound of approval. “We should get going then, we’ve got ground to cover.”
I nod. “Okay, I’m ready.”
He reaches over and bumps my shoulder gently. “Let’s make it a good day.”
I smile, the morning sunlight warming my face.
There’s an easiness between us that sneaks up on me—quiet, unforced, and unlike anything I’m used to. It settles into the silence without needing to fill it. I’m not sure when it happened, but something started to shift somewhere between the long hike and breakfast.
And yeah, maybe that kind of comfort is scarier than chaos.
Still, as we hop in the van and the road opens ahead of us, I let myself lean into it—a little.