Caleb
Whatthehellam I doing? What in the hell am I doing?
The words go round and round in my head, but they don’t stall my feet. I’m still headed toward home, with a ridiculously bulky case under my arm and a woman of an entirely different shape over my shoulder.
“When are you going to find yourself a nice girl?”
My mother’s words join the carousel of criticism in my mind. She asks the question with regularity but the most recent was just yesterday. I almost snort to myself. I’m pretty certain that grabbing a woman and throwing her over my shoulder like a neanderthal isn’t exactly what Ma had been suggesting.
Not that I’d had a lot of choice in the matter.
I feel my irritation start to burn and try to keep a lid on the rising heat. I’d earned a fair reputation in my teen years when my usual quiet had turned into a full rage. I manage myself better now. But the one thing that’s always guaranteed to stoke those old flames is an out-of-towner stomping around the woods with no idea what they’re doing.
“Your hospitality leaves something to be desired.” The woman complains, no doubt with her nose in the air.
I ignore her. Or try to. She’s twisting to look at me, her lips close to my ear. I can practically feel the biting irritation that punctuates her words. They leave her lips with heat and spice, then curl against my neck.
I turn my focus to the path ahead. The disadvantage of knowing the forest like the back of my hand is that I don’t need to concentrate. My feet know where they’re going without help. Which leaves my brain idle and able to turn its attention to other things. Like that damn breath on my neck. Or the way my shoulder fits nicely in the woman’s middle, the swell of her curves fitting snugly on either side. Then there are her legs, soft and pliable beneath her denim jeans. I hold her firmly, telling myself it’s to keep her from bucking out of my grip and falling to the ground. But I’m only half-convinced.
As a soft sigh drifts down my back, I feel her thigh shift beneath my palm.
Despite the surrender, she’s clearly still unimpressed.
If she doesn’t like my methods, she knows where to go. Away.
As I pass the final thicket of sycamores, the familiar shape of home manifests itself from the shadow. By now, the moon has shone down through the network of branches overhead. It gilds the edges of the old ranch house, highlighting the undulating tiles over the rooftop, the wooden pillars of the wide front porch, and the stilted beams that keep the property safe from flooding after heavy rain.
Speaking of…
I glance at the sky, watching the way the clouds curl around the moon, not wispy and white, but thick and dark.
Great. Another storm.
“Are you ever planning on putting me down?”
I jolt from my thoughts, and realize I’ve been standing stock still for several minutes without letting the woman go.
“Hey!” she protests as I heft her higher on my shoulder and jog the last few steps to the house.
“Shut up. You hurt your foot, didn’t you?”
It had been obvious despite her protests. I could still hear the little gasp of pain that had cut through the forest, louder than any shout.
I’d not been raised to ignore a sound like that.
Mounting the porch steps, I juggle the luggage, the sputtering woman, and my key until I have the front door open.
“We’re here?”
Again, I ignore the obvious question and head inside. Dumping her case at the door—she will not be staying—I aim for the large armchair in the living room, flicking on lights as I go.
Tempting as it is to drop the woman as unceremoniously as I had her luggage, the thought of her foot has me lowering her carefully into a seat. Not that she notices me trying to be delicate, of course. She’s instantly scooting that butt of hers to the edge of the seat, intent on getting up.
“Stay,” I order, with a finger raised.
She glares back at me with eyes that spark fire.
“I am not a dog.”