I stack wood and paper into the pit and start a fire. She plops into one of the camping chairs and slips off her flip-flops. Then she rants.

And rants.

And rants.

Squatting down in front of her, I rest my hands on her bare thighs. She jumps, holding her breath.

Mission accomplished.

“I need some peace and quiet now. Can you do that? Can you just not talk for a bit?”

She frowns, her rage simmering into something resembling defeat. “Why didn’t you help me out? Why would my dad and Deedy let someone like you take me across the country?”

I squeeze her legs until her muscles flex beneath my touch. There’s no denying she has spectacular legs, but flirting is not my intention. Still …

Fucking spectacular legs.

“I did help you. I suggested you wear sensible hiking shoes. Why should I be an enabler to your lack of common sense, stubbornness, excessive vanity, or whatever weird, self-destructive, female fucked-upness you seem to have?”

Her chin dips, gaze focused on my hands. I expect to see her bottom lip start to quiver and tears fill her eyes.

“I’m not happy,” she whispers.

No tears.

No quivering lip.

There’s just this shell of a woman with emotionless words spoken in a numbing tone.

After a few moments of welcomed silence, I move my hands from her legs to her wrists on the arms of the chair. Easing my body back to standing, I lean over her, letting my face linger over the top of her head. For a few moments, I contemplate pressing my lips to her hair—a friendly kiss that says, “Me neither.”

But I don’t. Instead, I press my forehead to the top of her head and give her wrists a slight squeeze. Avery sucks in a shaky breath. I close my eyes.

Chapter Nine

Avery

Day Three

“Psst …”

I nudge Jake. He groans.

“Psst!”

He rolls away from me.

“Jake! I need the truck keys,” I whisper-yell.

Another groan.

My eyes flit between his bared torso turned away from me and his partially unzipped duffel bag at his feet. Jake has nice feet. I’m not sure I’ve ever thought this about a guy before. But—I move my phone’s flashlight an inch closer—yes indeed, he has nice feet. Not a single nasty callous, and his toenails are perfect.

Not fair. What the heck, God? Why would you give a guy such perfect feet? Jackass Jake must use an expensive foot cream.

I roll my eyes at myself. What is this? The beginning of a foot fetish? Therapy of some sort might be in my future. After one last inspection of his flawless feet, and maybe a nanosecond glance back up his bare torso—because why the hell not?—I inspect the contents of his bag.