He doesn’t seem to mind my dancing with his teammates. I mean, it’s not like I’m suggesting we have group sex right here on the dance floor, but it’s a refreshing change to hang out with a guy who trusts me to respect the boundaries we’ve laid down. Thad always acted like I’d turn into Super Ho if he turned his back for even a second.
Pick claims he’s not much of a dancer, but he led me out for that one turn at the beginning of the night, and then he did it a second time. Pick’s strong hands guided me down the line, and then he watched with a smile on his face as the other men twirled me enthusiastically. Honestly? None of them can dance for shit. It’s more like happy stomping, but I guess I shouldn’t have expected Fred Astaire to be putting out forest fires.
The fresh air that hits me when we finally leave the bar sometime well after midnight is a welcome wake-up call. It’s been a weird night, but a good one (at least for everyone but Lola). The gravel parking lot is still plenty full of cars and beat-up trucks that reflect the vivid colors of the neon beer signs in the bar’s window. I’m tipsy. Again, something I don’t do. Drunk girls aren’t in control girls. I suck in cool air, putting a hand on Pick’s arm to steady myself. Heels are also a mistake tonight.
“You okay?” His amused laughter floats over my head. “I got you.”
Does he? I guess he does.
“I’m worried about Lola,” I announce to the rows of cars. It’s true. She’s not answering her phone, and Olivia says she’s not at the cabins. I think she needs us, or needs some moral support and someone to tell her just how much of an asshole Hunter is. For a moment, though, I concentrate on just breathing, in and then out. I’m not, I tell myself, enjoying the feel of Pick’s rock-hard muscles beneath my hand. I’m not copping a bonus feel of what I saw naked the other night. Nope. That’s not why I’m standing here in the parking lot at all. I’m just getting my head on straight, clearing my mind before I do something insanely, publicly stupid like Lola.
Nothing more.
Unfortunately, no amount of fresh air or breathing time seems to undo the effect my hotshot has on me. His concern is seductive. And although I’ve stood on my own two feet for years, I know that in no way is he suggesting that I’m not capable. He’s simply offering to help. Letting me know that he has my back, no strings attached.
The 64-thousand-dollar question is why.
It’s not that I’m not feeling it. Him. Us. Sure, we had an amazing hook up, but we’ve managed to share air space at camp this week without ripping each other’s clothes off. There have been looks, and I’ve been tempted. It turns out that Pick is a dirty texter. He’s full of “thoughtful” suggestions for ways he can make me feel better. He convinced me to FaceTime the other night and let’s just say the man talked me through an amazing orgasm. And yet I have a feeling that he’s not just interested in having more in-person sex with me. It’s ridiculous, right? He may have had his face buried in my hoohah—twice—but he barely knows me. I, on the other hand, have had enough relationships in my twenty-five years to know that the secrets I’m keeping are deal breakers. I screwed up badly, while Pick is a man who does everything the right way. He’s a bona fide hero who goes out to battle wildland fires every day of the summer.
He wouldn’t really want a woman like me.
Not if he knew.
We reach his bike before I can figure out if I really want to tell him and spoil this. Whatever this is. Staying silent isn’t a great idea, but neither is confession. I’m not sure what to do, but then my past picks this moment to step out from between two parked trucks.
Thad Hill looks every bit as determined and confident as I remember him being. He also looks extremely pissed as he moves forward and blocks our path. No end run around him, even if I had somewhere to run. I’ve all but gone to the ends of the earth, and he can’t let me go?
“Thad.” My lips are dry and stick to my teeth, but I get his name out.
“Sarah Jo.” His hands shift to his hips and the black utility belt there. For a heart-stopping moment, his fingers brush over the gun in its holster before he reaches for the cuffs. Would he actually kill me? I’ve never worried about that before—there are so many other ways to be at his mercy. The soft clink as he pulls the cuffs free almost gets lost in the sounds of doors slamming and men calling good-byes. “You’re under arrest.”