The Simple Wild (Wild 1)

Our definitions of “paradise” are very different.

I hug myself tightly as Jonah strikes a match. Within moments, my nostrils fill with the comforting scent of burning wood. The flames begin to crackle.

“It’ll take a bit to warm

up in here.” Jonah strolls past me, out the door, and around the corner. And I find myself holding my breath against the hope that he would have stalled there, would have looked down at me, smiled at me, grazed a hand against mine.

Anything.

There’s an odd prying sound.

“Jonah? What are you doing out there?” I call out with a frown. I assumed he was going to relieve himself, something I’ll have to do when I can’t avoid that log outhouse any longer.

Suddenly daylight streams into the cabin through the tiny window on the left. Within minutes Jonah has the other two windows uncovered, too.

He reappears, his hair plastered to his forehead, raindrops dripping from his beard. “We need to close this door if we want to dry out.” He pulls it shut behind him, herding me inside.

Despite the small portals in the walls, it’s still dark in here, and it takes a few minutes for my eyes to adjust to the heavy shadows.

Jonah checks the fire, decides something, and then shoves a log into it. The fire grows.

“You’re a regular Boy Scout, aren’t you?”

“I know how to survive, if that’s what you mean.”

And thank God for that. I imagine being stranded out here with Corey. Last fall, the idiot threw wet logs onto a lit bonfire, and then nearly set himself on fire while pouring gasoline over them—and the flames—to try and get them to burn. Even I, a city girl, knew he was asking for trouble when he reached for that gas can.

I doubt any of my ex-boyfriends had particularly strong survival instincts. I can guarantee none of them have ever shot a gun.

But here’s this rugged Alaskan pilot, his handsome face stony with focus, totally in control as he prepares our camp for the night, probably going through a mental checklist.

And I’m just standing here.

“What can I do to help?”

“There’s a sleeping bag and mattress roll in there. Lay it on the floor over here.”

“The floor?” I cringe at the worn boards.

“Trust me, it’ll be more comfortable than those bunks. Plus it’ll be warmer here, near the fire.”

I follow instructions, quietly wondering if I’m getting this bed ready for him or myself.

Or for us.

My nerves flutter in my stomach at the thought.

Jonah starts peeling off his outer layers and hanging them on one of several wire clotheslines above the woodstove, until he’s down to a clingy cream-colored crewneck that reminds me of long johns with its quilted material. The three buttons at the collar are undone, exposing the hard ridge of his collarbone and the top of the pad of muscle that stretches down over his chest.

“Give me your wet things.”

“All my things are wet,” I mutter, shrugging off the slicker and the flannel jacket. Even the hem of my tunic is soaked.

Jonah’s gaze stalls on my chest a moment—given I can see his nipples pebbled beneath his shirt, I can only imagine what mine look like—before holding out his hand.

I frown at his palm, near the base of his wrist. “You’re bleeding.”

He turns his hand to inspect the gash. “Ah, shit. Yeah, I scraped it on one of the boards over the windows. It’s nothing.”