Oh, she could think of many things she wanted him to do for her. To her. With her.
She nodded quickly, a real-life Presley bobblehead. “Shower,” she whispered.
One side of his mouth tipped up in a knowing smirk.
Every muscle in Presley’s body ached, even after the hot shower. Dressing in the yoga pants she’d bought specifically for the trip and a pale gray hoodie, she took the time to dry and straighten her thick hair. She was procrastinating on purpose. Asking Beckett for some kind of hookup was so far out of her comfort zone, it didn’t even reside in the same stratosphere. Not even Camping Presley had that much confidence. Plus, she’d reduced him to a hashtag that Lucy Layne would likely share. It wasn’t her hashtag; she didn’t even know the person who’d used it, but it was too good—and too accurate—for Lucy not to snap that up and share it. Not the best way to the heart of a guy who didn’t even have Instagram.You don’t need a way to his heart. And he doesn’t need your baggage.Her shredded feet now felt like a strange kind of penance for bringing someone into her haphazard plan.
Guilt and embarrassment over the photo slowed her movements. It wasn’t her fault. Logically, she knew that. She’d posted a picture. She hadn’t even known he was behind her looking all gorgeous with that sexy expanse of naturally tanned skin with just a light dusting of hair around his navel, heading down from tight abs. She had to admit, when she’d studied the photo in detail, he had flexed his arms perfectly. It looked like a setup shot.
Here’s me in a cabin with breakfast and a random hot guy.She laughed at her reflection in the mirror. Rylee had texted that she’d left out some rather important details of the trip so far. Her estimate was about six feet two of sculpted details.
The Wi-Fi on the hike had been nonexistent, plus there’d been the whole possibility of dying due to lack of oxygen, so Presley had been beyond shocked by the number of notifications on her phone when they got back to the grounds of the lodge. When she’d opened Instagram to show Beckett, she hadn’t really paid attention to the stupidly high number of responses—she had been focused on those first few comments that had had them both turning red.
Presley had a full-time job and a plan to move up the ladder. She didn’t intend to gain followers or increase her online presence. It was just a by-product of wanting to share things with a wider circle. She obsessed over proving herself to Ms. Twain, not algorithms. Basically, she wanted the same thing online as she did off: genuine connections.
Maybe the internet had been craving a Hot Mountain Man post to take their minds of the world’s problems. Beckett definitely fit the bill.
Finishing up her hair, she left the bathroom to find Beckett, his sock-clad feet up on his sturdy wood coffee table. The smallish TV had a baseball game on mute.
His eyes came to her immediately, tracking over her slowly before landing on her face. “How was the shower?”
She clasped her hands together, unsure what to do with them. “Good. Really good.” Doing her best not to limp, she made her way over to the couch.
It was obvious he noticed. “Stay here.”
She sank down, saying nothing, because not staying there, at least for a few minutes, was not an option. He went into the bathroom, came out a minute later with a white case.
Setting it down on the coffee table, he sat down, leaving some space between them, and gestured to her foot, then patted his knee.
Presley laughed. “I don’t think so.”
“Stop being so stubborn.”
“You’re not touching my feet, Beckett.” She shoved her hands in her hoodie pocket.
“Are they ticklish?” His lips quirked.
“Yes, actually. But that’s not why.”
Moving slowly, clearly giving her the option to stop him, he reached down for her foot, set it on his knee. “Baby steps.”
“Seems appropriate, given I’m waiting for you to leave so I can cry like a baby about how much I hate my new boots.”
Beckett grinned, put a hand on her ankle.Oh, great. Now ankles are erogenous?He opened the first aid kit and pulled out a rectangular box, then a second before grabbing a small tube of cream.
“You bought great boots. You just needed to wear them in. You know, like warming up before a run.” He kept his hand on her ankle like he was letting her grow accustomed to the weight of it. News flash: she would not. It made her want him to forget her feet and slide that hand all the way up.
Presley frowned, unable to quiet the buzzing in her gut that was especially tuned in to his touch. “By the time I warm up, I’m too tired to run. That’s why I prefer yoga.”
He chuckled. “I’m going to remove your sock.”
“Ew.”
His belly laugh made her short of breath. Even his laugh was sexy. It was the kind that would make a person work to hear it again and again.
“I’ve bandaged Ollie’s feet. I got you.”
Despite his large hands, his touch was gentle and soothing. Helooked at her foot, studying it, before setting it down on his knee again and preparing a cotton pad with cream. She squirmed when it touched her foot, making him look up at her through lowered lids.
