Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92899 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92899 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
Yet another thing to blame Tommy Marian for.
Inside, I opened the fridge to grab a beer and frowned at the meager contents. Maybe SERA’s dining hall would offer me a chance to escape my usual slim pickings.
When I went to grab a clean shirt for tomorrow, my hands froze over the dresser.
I’d started calling the second drawer from the top the “T-shirt Drawer of Shame” in my head because it held the one thing I should have thrown away months ago—the T-shirt Tommy had given me that night in Hawaii.
I stood there, fingers twitching, knowing I should just shut the drawer and go to bed. Instead, I pulled it out, ran my thumb over the soft, worn fabric.
The memories hit me like physical blows. Tommy’s smile as he’d handed it to me. Waking up to his note and the bourbon he’d sent to my room. Finding him in the hotel lobby with a fucking fiancée and a hundred pairs of eyes staring at me. The regret and confusion on his face when I’d walked out of his life for good. My desperate rush to leave Hawaii immediately so I could start to forget everything about Dr. Thomas Marian. And all the nights since, whether in the shower or sprawled naked on my bed with my cock in my hand, when remembering Tommy was the only fucking thing that brought me any relief.
I shoved the shirt back in the drawer and slammed it shut. Chickie whined from her bed in the corner, sensing my mood shift.
“It’s okay, girl,” I said, crossing the room to kneel beside her. She licked my face, her warm weight against me comforting. “We’re going on an adventure soon. Just you and me.”
Friday morning came with clear skies and a forecast of another scorching day. I loaded my gear and Chick into my truck and pointed us north toward Montana, windows down to catch whatever breeze we could find.
The drive gave me too much time to think. About my mom’s worried face when I’d told her I was leaving for the summer. About Way’s not-so-subtle suggestion that this trip might “clear my head.” About the way I’d been holding everyone at arm’s length since Hawaii.
Maybe they were right. Maybe a summer in Legacy was exactly what I needed. Maybe there’d be hot firefighters and pilots at SERA who could help me forget about the last man I’d kissed.
“What do you think, Chick?” I glanced over at my co-pilot, who had her head out the window, ears flapping in the wind. “Ready for an adventure?”
She barked enthusiastically as I reached for the knob on the radio and turned up the music.
The landscape changed gradually as we crossed into Montana—the land a little wilder, the forests denser. The temperature dropped as we gained a little elevation, a welcome relief from the heat wave we’d been experiencing in Majestic.
Legacy itself was a charming town with rustic character, nestled at the bottom of Slingshot Mountain with a river running through its center. Local legend said it was named by a gold miner who’d struck it rich and declared the town would be his legacy to his children. The gold had run out eventually, but the town had persisted, reinventing itself as a quirky little place with similar but less robust outdoor tourism than Majestic and a burgeoning art and eatery scene. With only two slopes, it would never compete with the ski traffic at Vail or Jackson, but it had enough visitors in summer to justify an eclectic collection of shops and restaurants that had, themselves, become a draw for tourists year-round.
Now, in peak summer, the main street was bustling with sporty tourists in hiking boots and artsy types in flowy hemp pants and cropped tank tops. Outdoor gear shops and artisan cafés lined the road, along with a few bars that looked like they’d been there since the mining days.
After driving through and then out of the town center for several more miles, I pulled up to SERA headquarters—a sprawling lodge with several outbuildings and small cabins, nestled against the base of the mountain. The parking lot was packed with vehicles sporting license plates from half a dozen states.
Chick and I were late. I’d stopped to help a family change a flat on the side of the road, and by the time we made it into the main building, instructor orientation was already underway. I slipped into the back of the room, Chickie at my heels, and scanned the setup, which included about a dozen people, equipment displays along the walls, and detailed maps of the surrounding wilderness.
My attention shifted to the front of the room, where a man with an award-winning ass was speaking, his back to me as he pointed at a topographical map.
“—conditions are particularly challenging this season. Which is a good opportunity for us to teach the importance of improvisation in wilderness emergency response.”