He turned away from me, giving me a chance to appreciate the nice round butt I’d noticed in the photo, but also the muscular back and shoulders, the tattoos that snaked around to his ribs on his right side. What were they? I’d never known a man with tattoos before, not personally. And I’d definitely never seen one naked.
I hadn’t seen that many men naked at all, really. Maybe that was my problem—fascination, sort of like he was a museum exhibit or exotic animal or circus sideshow. The male bodies I’d seen in the flesh were pale and thin—nothing like the beautiful work of art in front of me now, which had bulges and ridges and lines, the morning sun burnishing his skin to bronze. I wanted to—
CRACK!
The branch I was standing on snapped, and I hit the ground in an ungraceful belly flop.
(Also, I may have peed myself. Just slightly.)
I picked up my head and looked at Jack, shocked to see he’d quite literally hit the deck, his body flattened against the wood. A second later he looked up and saw me. Not the discovery fantasy I’d concocted by a long shot.
Oh, Jesus. This is worse than Sconehenge.
How the hell was I going to explain myself?
Nine
Jack
First, terror. Adrenaline-fueled, heart-pounding, blood-pumping, gut-wrenching terror.
Then, anger. That I hadn’t been vigilant enough. That I’d missed some sign of danger. That I’d failed.
Finally, awareness. That I was OK. That everyone was safe. That nothing had happened.
Well, nothing dangerous.
My heart rate and breathing slowed as I took in the scene—Margot Lewiston, flat on her belly—and realized the noise that had startled me had been the snapping of a tree branch, which had apparently given out under her weight. “Fuck,” I muttered, feeling foolish, like I always did when this happened.
And that’s when I wasn’t naked.
I jumped up and yanked on my sweaty running shorts, which were lying on the dock next to my socks and shoes. Since Pete was checking on the animals this morning, I’d decided to take a quick swim after my run. I hadn’t counted on an audience.
Once I had the shorts on, I stood up straight, fists clenched, ready to rip into her for trespassing, for spying, for scaring me. For refusing to get out of my head. But one look at the way she hopped to her feet and started running toward me—on her toes, knees pressed together, hands over her crotch—and I was momentarily stunned.
“Oh hey, Jack,” she said casually, like she just happened to be in the neighborhood, “I know you’re probably wondering what I’m doing here. And I’m sure I can explain. But first, can I please, please use your bathroom?”
“Uh, OK.” Annoyed as I was at the invasion of privacy, I nearly laughed out loud at her awkward rush for the cabin’s back door. I jogged ahead of her and let her in, gesturing toward the bathroom.
“Thank you,” she mouthed as she raced by me.
While she was in the bathroom, I stayed out on the back porch, uncomfortable with the thought of being in the cabin alone with her. What the hell was she doing here? Bad enough I’d spent an entire sleepless night trying not to think about her legs and her eyes and that fucking pearl necklace. She had to show up first thing this morning in those tiny shorts and a tight shirt? My dick started perking up, and I did my best to crush its hopes, thinking about crop rotations and drip irrigation systems and long range weather forecasts.
Thankfully, I had myself under control by the time she came out, a relieved smile on her face.
“Wow,” she said, shutting the screen door behind her. “That was close. Thank you so much.”
“You’re welcome.” I crossed my arms, wishing I’d thought to grab a shirt. “Want to tell me what you were doing out there?”
Her cheeks colored. “Um, I was taking a run.”
“Up a tree?”
She laughed nervously. “No. Well, I didn’t start out in a tree. That happened later.”
I cocked my head, unable to resist giving her a hard time. Not so sure of yourself now, are you, Barbie? “Oh yeah?”
“Yes. See, I left the cottage I’m renting without using the bathroom by mistake,” she began, twisting her fingers together, “and I was planning on running a loop around the farm, but it’s bigger than I thought.”
“Ah. So you were looking for a bathroom in the woods?”
“Well, yes.” She swallowed. “Sort of. But then I heard a splash and saw you…” Her cheeks were practically purple now.
I played dumb. “Saw me what?”
“Saw you naked, OK?” she blurted, throwing her hands up. “I admit it—I saw you naked.”
I had no hang-ups about nudity, but I was damn serious about my privacy, and about people sneaking up on me.
But her embarrassment was funny. The two times I’d seen her before, she’d been so polished and poised. It felt good to put her in her place a little. “So you climbed a tree for a better view, is that it?”