Squeezing her knees together, Imogen swallowed hard and admired Ty’s butt when he bent over to grab the sleeping bag out of his giant backpack. If she were inclined to write poetry, she could pen a sonnet regarding the beauty of his backside in denim. Not many things in her life had drawn such a tactile response from her. She always wanted to touch his bum when it was in front of her. Always. Hell, whenever it was in touching distance, she wanted a crack at it, no pun intended.

Maybe she hadn’t consumed enough coffee yet, given the wild and ridiculous nature of her thoughts. It had to be almost 10 A.M., and one cup was way below her daily average for this time. She usually got up about eight and, two hours later, was on her third or fourth cup. Lack of caffeine and the arduous nature of the hike were clearly making her punchy, because she was waxing poetic about the man’s backside and not feeling the least bit concerned about the physical discomforts of camping that lay ahead. She had already seen Ty toss a spider out of the tent and she hadn’t even winced.

All she could think of was what difference did animals, insects, cold, and the lack of a comfortable bed matter when she was spending time, naked fun time, with Ty?

It seemed that feeling the way she did just might indicate that she was more emotionally involved with Ty than she cared to admit. It might even be that she was potentially falling in love with him, which was more than alarming. Yet she had never been in love before, she was certain of that, so how could she possibly know if she was even remotely close to feeling that exalted emotion for Ty?

What she did know was that she was sitting on a rock, a hard, dirty rock, in the middle of nowhere, with mosquitoes flitting around her face, with aching feet, and yet watching Ty, she just wanted to sigh in moony, googly-eyed girl fashion.

“How could you remember that quote from Much Ado About Nothing?” she asked him.

Ty glanced her way and tapped his head before returning to the task of making some kind of sculpture with the wood in the fire pit. “I have a good memory.”

“Obviously. But what made you think of it?” She shouldn’t ask, shouldn’t ruin a good moment by probing into the why of it. She should just enjoy the fact that he had said it and stop always searching for answers and explanations. So she quickly added, “Never mind. You must think I’m akin to a preschooler, always asking why.”

Standing back up, Ty looked over at her, his expression unreadable. “Why shouldn’t you ask why? If you’re curious, there’s nothing wrong with asking. And I’ll tell you why I thought of it . . . Watching you on the trail in the quiet of the woods, I was just grateful to be with you.” He shrugged. “That’s all. And Shakespeare’s words are better than mine.”