Chapter 17 Ginger
Ginger
While hiking back to the car this afternoon, Hutch offered me a piggyback ride.
I refused—because I’m a grown-ass woman and can walk, thank you very much.
But after a few minutes of relentless teasing, I’d finally jabbed a finger into his chest and said one word: veto.
That shut him up.And then I spent the next twenty minutes trying very hard not to imagine how good he’d feel between my thighs with my legs wrapped around him.
I know. Pathetic.
We spent most of the day driving, making a few pit stops along the way.
At one point, we stumbled across a taco truck, and Hutch—true to form—ordered way too much food.
Tacos for days. Then, like the absolute menace he is, he ducked into a convenience store and came back out with margarita mix and a fifth of tequila.
We ate until our stomachs hurt and drank until everything felt warm and easy. Between the two of us, we polished off half the bottle.
Now, hours later, the rain has rolled in. Heavy drops pound against the roof of the van, turning it into a tin-can symphony. The space glows softly—the screens of our laptops and the small overhead cabin light casting a warm hum.
Earlier, Hutch showed me how to swivel the passenger-side captain’s chair around, and I’ve been curled up under a blanket ever since, trying to finish up branding work for a client. I’d really like to wrap it all up before we hit Montana.
Once we’re there, I want to be present—just Ginger. Not Ginger the business owner, not Ginger the ex-wife, not the mother trying to balance everything…me.
Hutch sits opposite me on the couch, his laptop open in front of him. He is studying something on his screen through thick, black-framed glasses.
Glasses.
As if Hutch Hayes isn’t already unfairly sexy, he has the audacity to wear glasses, too.
What’s next—he plays the guitar? Writes poetry?
If that’s the case, I’m screwed. I’ll spiral straight into a lust-induced coma and never return, trapped forever in a fugue state where all I can see is Hutch in those damn glasses, that glossy, untamable hair, and his pierced, monster cock.
Everything about this man—everything—is sexy.
The way he moves, his large frame wrapped in muscle like it’s nothing.
How he quietly, carefully bandaged my feet and treated my mosquito bites like it was second nature.
He doesn’t try to be hot. He just is. The fuck-me energy rolls off him in waves, and if I thought I was a slut for it before?
I hadn’t seen him in glasses.
I look up at him occasionally, and the line between his brows is a little deeper each time I do.
He doesn’t look up; for the most part, he’s quiet and still, except for the clacking of the keys, the occasional raising of his hand to run through his hair, a click of the mouse, or to take a sip of his margarita.
I close out of the program I’ve been working in, satisfied with the work I was able to get done for the night, when he sighs in frustration.
I glance up at him while shutting down my laptop. “Everything okay?”
He looks up absently, as if remembering we’re sharing a space, and scrubs a hand over his face. “Yeah, just trying to rework this elevation, but nothing looks right.”
“Elevation?” I ask, snapping the lid of my laptop closed and sliding it back into the bag at my feet.
He nods, spinning the laptop around to show me. On the screen is a 3D rendering of a gorgeous custom home with brick, siding, and window mockups.
“The customer wants different windows, but the layout makes the size they want awkward. I’ve been reworking things for an hour and it’s still not right.”
Standing, I cross the small space and sit next to him on the couch, peering at the screen. My gaze finds his. “Wait…you’re telling me you drew this?”
“Yeah,” he says around a yawn.
“Seriously?” I don’t mean to sound surprised, but I am. This is extremely detailed and not at all what I was expecting when Wren said he built houses for a living.
“Don’t act so shocked.” He chuckles. “I might be pretty, but I have a brain, too,” he says in mock offense.
I shake my head at him. “Will you stop with the fuckboy shit?”
He looks surprised. I know he does it to be funny, but I can’t help but wonder how much of it is true, versus how much he plays into it because it’s what he’s always done.
Either way, over the last two days, Hutch has shown me there is way more to him than a big cock and a pretty face, presumed body count notwithstanding.
“This is amazing. When Wren told me you were in construction, I pictured hammering nails and cutting plywood. Not this,” I say, glancing back at the drawing.
“Thanks.” A small smile lifts his lips, and it’s so different from the cocky one he typically hits me with.
“I do a lot of that too,” he continues, “but this is my main focus. That and supervising jobs, making sure people don’t fuck things up, and figuring out how to fix it or who’s responsible to fix it when they do. ”
“Is there more? Like, the inside?”
“Sure,” he says and clicks around a couple of times before the front door on the drawing generates and the front door swings open. “Move the arrows around to where you want to look.”
I take control of the mouse and start clicking through the house.
The technology is incredible, and I love the layout.
As I explore, Hutch tells me about the client—a family of five—and points out thoughtful details he added, like a laundry chute in the kids’ bathroom and adjusting cabinet sizes to better fit large pots—things I’d never think to ask for but would absolutely appreciate.
Over the next hour, he walks me through the entire building process, from digital plans to framing, wiring, and inspections.
We’re both yawning by the end—me especially—lulled by the rain and the steady rhythm of his voice.
He’s still working on a tricky window adjustment, but he’s sure sleep will help him sort it out.
The rain comes down in a steady deluge, and the wind has really kicked up since we ate dinner. I’ve never been more grateful to be camping in this old van rather than a tent in my entire life.
Once Hutch gets his laptop stowed away, he turns his back so that I can change—I’m really too tired, so I slip off my leggings before climbing up into my bunk.
It’s much cooler up here, even with the ventilation flaps closed, but I burrow down into the blankets, creating a warm cocoon around myself.
I can hear Hutch below me getting ready for bed and let my mind wander a bit.
He’s different from what I expected him to be on this trip.
Sure, he’s still cocky and self-assured, and very rarely is he serious, but I’m learning it does happen.
He’s also surprisingly talented with a computer, and he definitely knows his shit when it comes to designing and building homes, and I have to admit, even that is sexy.
But it’s more than that. When he talked me down out there at the zip-line it might have been cheesy as hell, but something about this man calms my storm.
Like a buoy in the ocean, he’s reliable and constant and even when my own insecurities seem like they’ll take me under, he’s right there with reassuring words and a smile that rivals the literal sun.
God, the tequila must be making me sappy.
This guy literally makes things from wood, like things that people can actually use, like tables and chairs and shit.
He builds houses. Not only does he build them, he designs them.
He’s got an inhumanly delicious body, a cock that should have its own zip code, and he’s gentle.
Humble even, if tonight is any indication.
As the lights go out and I drift off, warm and cozy under a mountain of blankets, there’s a lightness in my chest I haven’t felt in years. I don’t have to try very hard to realize Hutch is a big reason for that.
My feet are cold. There’s a steady ticking somewhere to my left. No, not a ticking…dripping maybe? Yes, dripping, that’s it.
Snuggling further down in my bedding, my foot touches something wet, jolting me out of my sleepy, tequila stupor. I try to sit up and smash my head into something hard.
“Ow. What the hell?” I mutter and sit up in the dark, and for a moment I can’t remember where I am.
The wind kicks up and it comes flooding back.
I’m on the top bunk of Hutch’s Vanagon in…
Where did he say we were again? In the middle of one hell of a storm.
Thunder cracks, making me jump, and the wind howls.
I reach for the lantern Hutch gave me that first night.
My fears are confirmed by lifting it the slightest bit so as not to wake him with light brighter than the sun.
It’s raining like crazy, and somewhere, the canvas at the top of the pop-up is leaking. I run my hands along the bottom of my bed, and sure enough, it’s soaked. Opening the lantern a little more, I can see rivulets of water coursing down the side of the roof, running perpendicular to the bed.
On my knees in the semi-darkness, I roll up my sweatshirt and shove it against the leak, hoping to at least staunch the flow.
Bringing the light a little closer, I can see a rip in the canvas near the top.
Had the pop-up been closed, it probably wouldn’t be a problem, but since I’m currently using the loft for a bed, I’m able to see—and feel it.
I sit back on my haunches, trying to decide if I can take care of the problem myself or if I will have to wake Hutch.
Several minutes pass as I run through things that might help, but short of duct tape and a tarp or a patch kit, I don’t think there is much hope for a dry bed tonight.
Even if I had either of those things, it would at the very least require the rain to stop long enough to fix the problem.
From how long it’s been raining, that’s not looking good either.