The Simple Wild (Wild 1)

He smirks. “Come on. You can get some pictures for Wild’s website. You said you wanted to do that, right?”

Anxiety is quickly rising in my belly like a twirling windstorm at the thought of getting into a plane—with Jonah—again. But with it is a strange sense of excitement. Besides, I don’t want to spend the day sitting around, looking for ways to kill time until my dad comes home. “Fine. Give me an hour.”

He barks out a laugh. “You have five minutes.”

“Yeah, right. I can’t get ready in five minutes. I’m not you.”

I get a flat look in return. “You’re in Alaska. Throw on some clothes, brush your teeth, and let’s go.”

“Half an hour.” If I skip showering and rush my makeup, I can do that.

“Five minutes.”

“Twenty,” I barter.

His normally icy gaze slides over my mouth, my throat, my chest, and farther, before coming back up to meet my eyes. His hard swallow fills the silence. “You don’t need all that to look good, Calla. Seriously.”

My words falter. Was that a compliment?

From Jonah?

And why is this heated gaze I’m seeing not making me uncomfortable?

Why does it seem to be doing the exact opposite, sending a small thrill through me? Am I . . . ? No, even if the top half of his face is attractive and his body is impressive, I can’t be attracted to him. I can’t get past the yeti hair.

But something about the look in Jonah’s eyes is arousing my curiosity.

“Fifteen minutes,” I say, clearing the wobble from my voice.

“If you’re not out in five, I will come in here, throw you over my shoulder, and carry you out.”

“You will not.”

He gives me a wicked smile in return, one that makes my blood start to flow. “Try me. And just know, I won’t care if you’re not dressed.” He pushes a few buttons on his watch.

“Did you just start a timer for me?”

“Five minutes. I’ll be waiting in the truck.”

I glower at his retreating back.

“Tick tock!”

“Asshole.” With a huff, I dive for my jeans.

“Are you trying to hit every last crack in the pavement?” I snap, glaring at my own reflection in the vanity mirror as I attempt to apply a second coat of mascara to my eyelashes.

“You’re in the Alaskan bush. Stop with all that,” he mutters, but slows a touch. Still, the ground is too bumpy for a steady hand.

I give up on a second coat, cap my mascara, and throw it into my purse. “Why does everyone keep calling it ‘the bush’ anyway? ‘The bush’ means dense forest where I’m from. There’s no forest here. There’re barely any trees. No bush.” I add quietly, “Besides the one on your face.”

“Aren’t we a bit plucky this morning.” He sounds amused.

I slide my sunglasses on to block the blinding sun, a welcome change from the drizzle but not when it’s shining directly into my eyes. “If you don’t like it, next time don’t drag me out of my bed and chase me out the door.” I’m never in good spirits when I’m forced to rush in the morning.

“I gave you an extra three minutes.”

“You’re too kind.” I reach for the travel mug of coff