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)
In most of those cases, it hadn’t been a big loss. A sting, maybe. A little bruise to my heart. A few weeks of disappointment.
But with Tommy?
After a single evening with Tommy Marian—one conversation, a few drinks, two mind-melting kisses, eight hours or less—I’d caught a terminal case of feelings and spent the last half a year all up in my head over him.
So what would happen if I gave in and actually got to know him? If I spent the next seven and a half weeks trading smiles with him across a canteen table, seeing his hazel eyes twinkle, listening to how much he loved his family, watching him do his job with skill and compassion, and mapping the precise texture of his lips, his skin, and his dick with my tongue? What would happen if I let myself really, truly fall for him and pretend we had a future together?
Nothing good, that was what.
Because Tommy might have left his high-profile job in Manhattan, but I’d bet anything the California job he’d mentioned applying for was just as fancy. He still belonged in a world of hospital politics and medical conferences that was as foreign to me as Mars.
And I belonged in Majestic, Wyoming, where the air never smelled like car exhaust and the cows outnumbered the people two to one. Where I had family and community. Where my own career was as much a part of my identity as Tommy’s career was of his.
It was hopeless, and therefore, I needed to keep my guard up. That was the smart thing to do.
I turned off the water and grabbed a towel, catching my reflection in the small mirror. My hair was dripping, my skin flushed from the heat, and my eyes were wild.
I looked like a man on the edge of making a very stupid decision.
I dressed quickly in clean tactical pants and a fresh SERA shirt, trying to ignore the way my hands shook as I pulled the fabric over my head. When I arrived at the truck, Tommy was waiting in the passenger seat, staring at his phone.
The drive back to the trailhead was torture of a completely different kind than the trip to SERA had been. Instead of anger and misunderstanding, the cab was filled with awareness so acute it made my skin burn. Every time Tommy shifted in his seat, every time he ran his fingers through his still-damp hair, I felt it like a physical touch.
By the time we pulled into the trailhead parking area, I felt like I was going to combust.
“You okay?” I asked stupidly.
“Peachy,” he said before climbing out of the truck. “Despite what some of my fellow instructors think, I’m capable of remaining professional and ignoring distractions. Besides, there’s nothing around to distract me anyway.”
I stared after him as his cold words washed over me. He sounded pissed. He sounded hurt.
Good, I told myself. This was good. It was better this way. Nothing left to do but focus on the job.
I couldn’t focus for shit.
The drill itself went off without a hitch. The “missing kayaker” was an instructor playing the role of a hypothermic victim with a dislocated shoulder—challenging enough to test the students’ skills without being life-threatening.
But despite my earlier bitching at Tommy, this time, I was the one who was distracted as hell.
I kept finding my attention drawn to him as he worked with his medical team. His confidence as he gave instructions, the gentle manner he used with nervous students, the way his pants pulled tight across his ass when he bent to examine their “patient.” The way he calmed a panicked student who was second-guessing his own decisions with a reassuring “You’ve got this. Trust your training” that reminded me so much of the voice that had whispered my name in Hawaii.
At one point, he caught me staring and raised an eyebrow in accusation. The slight flare of his nostrils sent heat straight to my groin…
Professional, I reminded myself. Keep it professional.
Easier said than done when every cell in my body was hyperaware of Tommy’s presence.
“Sheriff Blake?” One of my students, a park ranger from Colorado named Marcus, was looking at me expectantly. “The lowering system?”
I blinked, realizing I’d completely zoned out while Marcus was asking about rope techniques. “Right. Sorry. Show me your anchor setup.”
I forced myself to focus for the rest of the drill, but by the time we loaded back onto the bus, my nerves were stretched tight as piano wire. The students were chattering excitedly about the day’s events, comparing notes and asking follow-up questions, but I barely heard them.
All I could think about was the coming evening, when Tommy and I would find ourselves alone again in the cabin.
Dinner in the dining hall had quickly become one of my favorite parts of the day at SERA—good food, easy conversation with fellow instructors and the students, and the satisfaction of a productive day. But tonight, it felt interminable. I sat at one end of the long table, picking at the grilled vegetables in front of me and trying not to stare at Tommy, who was deep in conversation with Robyn about the next day’s activities.