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For all the ones who have felt crippled by the opinions of others. I hope you learn to love what you’re doing so completely that all those critical voices cease to matter. And until then, remember that thriving is winning. Go forth and thrive.
and there’s another fucking tourist on the side of the road trying to get a selfie with a bear. Not just any bear either. A grizzly.
She shakes her head and continues glaring. “You know what I’m fucking sick of?” “Is it living?”
“I relate. I really do. But this may not be the hill to die on right now. Literally and figuratively. If we survive this, I will drive you to a zoo and film your social media content for you. And I hate social media, but I don’t break promises.”
But that”—I point at the bear—“is not Winnie the Pooh.”
She’s alluring. There’s something about her that makes it hard to peel my eyes away. You can see it onscreen. Hear it on the radio. And it’s even more pronounced in person. “Okay, doll.”
“Good girl. You’re doing so well.” Any other time, I’d laugh at myself for talking to this woman like a horse. But in this moment, my skin hums with tension and my muscles coil as though ready to spring into action.
“Can we make it to your truck?” I can barely hear her over the sound of my heart pounding in my ears. “We’re not close enough and I don’t like our odds of outrunning a grizzly.”
My thumb rubs soft, slow circles over the crown of her head. “It’s okay. You’re okay. We’re just gonna be quiet together and then everything is going to be okay.” I whisper the words to her, but I say them for myself.
I’m not sure I’ve ever gotten this lost in a perfect stranger’s eyes.
“Tell me it’s going to be okay again.” The words are a breath,
The tips of our noses brush as my face slants down over hers. My lips move silently against the skin on her cheek as I mouth the words, It’s going to be okay.
why is this so hot!?
I rest my forehead against hers and try to regulate her breathing with my own.
Skylar squirms a little and peeks up at me from beneath her thick lashes. “Did you see the babies? They’re so cute.”
I roll my forehead against hers as I stifle a laugh, wondering how I constantly end up in the orbit of women who are this atrocious at following simple instructions—even when their lives depend on it.
Long enough that her knuckles must be cramping from clutching at my shirt.
Her entire body is still trembling uncontrollably, so I smooth my hand over her hair to ease her shaking.
It’s with a ragged sigh that I finally glance back down…to see I’m straddling Skylar Stone.
And she doesn’t let go of my shirt. Her arm is straight, and her knuckles are still white as she grips the cotton.
“It was all going great until you showed up acting like fucking Crocodile Dundee crossed with…with…” She waves a hand over me as she struggles to find the right insult. “With Superman or something.” I lift a hand and scrub it over my chin. “It’s the strong jawline, isn’t it?”
Now I’m full-on grinning. “We both know I saved your ass. Just say thank you.”
Thank you for being willing to die for me. That’s new and unexpected and something I’ll have to process with my therapist at a later date.”
“I’m sorry. I’m just overwhelmed by…by everything. That was fucking terrifying, and I don’t know how to thank you. I don’t think anyone has ever been willing to lay their life on the line for me.”
“You can thank me by not apologizing anymore. Then you can get in your car and follow me.”
“Weston Belmont. Rose Hill’s very own Super-Crocodile-Dundee-Man at your service,” I reply with a dramatic salute. She rolls her eyes, and a ghost of a smile touches her lips.
I have a thing for hands. I won’t even deny it. Men’s hands, specifically. The way the tendons on top flex and ripple when they strum at a guitar. The way they use up the entire length of a microphone handle. The way they can be warm and gentle on my skin.
Ones with dusty blond hair and muscles that make their shirt look just a little too tight through the shoulders.
Weston Belmont saved me from a grizzly bear. Saved me from myself, really. From my own naiveté. A smarter girl would be captivated by his bravery, or his deep voice, or his quippy one-liners. Not me. I’m following him down a backcountry road in the middle of the Canadian wilderness, daydreaming about his big fucking hands. I make a mental note to follow up with my therapist about this too. I have to be diagnosable. It has to be a coping mechanism of some sort. Do daddy issues give you a hand kink?
It’s funny how I can be surrounded by so many people who profess to love me and still feel so utterly alone.
An image—clear as day—of Weston’s sky-blue eyes boring into mine as we breathed together on the asphalt flashes through my head.
He’d trapped me. But being trapped in his gaze soothed me in a completely unfamiliar way.
No haze, no pollution—just pure, unfiltered blue. Like Weston’s eyes.
I must have zoned out and missed him rounding my vehicle, because his big, manly hands are here, propped above my window as he peers down at me.
My eyes catch on the hole in the fabric on his left pectoral again and the glow of golden skin beneath. The golden skin of a man who spends his time outdoors with no shirt on.
I come from the land of pale skin and spray tans, so there’s something mesmerizing about what might be beneath the cotton material. I sweep away the urge to wiggle a finger through the opening to find out for sure.
Nothing is real. But his eyes are. He is.
Weston smiles, eyes still on my mouth, as he makes a light clucking noise. “All right, Cherry. I hear ya. I’m leaving, I’m leaving.” He steps back, hands held up in surrender.
“Nah, you already said thank you. You don’t owe me anything. I did it because I wanted to.” I blink a few times at that. You don’t owe me anything.
head, I hear him mutter to himself from the other side of his truck, “Fuckin’ Tesla and a talking bird.” It makes me smile. A genuine smile.
Rosalie shoves an elbow into his ribs. “You’re doing the resting prick face. Stop it.”
“I’ll buy a bed and just stay here,” I blurt to a chorus of chuckles. “This place is incredible.” “Glad you like it,” Ford says as he leans back against a desk and crosses his arms.
“Ford, what’s going on upstairs?” she asks. “I’m just weighing options.” “You look like you’re plotting a murder.”
He waves her off. “No, I’ll save that for when Skylar wants to tell me who she’s running from.”
“Rosie, that place is a dump.” She doesn’t bother looking back at Ford this time, choosing to roll her eyes at me instead.
“I know you just rolled your eyes,” he bites out, but he’s smirking.
“Ah! There he is,” she says. “The man of the hour.” And yup. There. He. Is. “West!” Weston Belmont stands shirtless,
He crouches to wet the horse’s stomach, and from his side profile, I can see he’s grinning as the water sprays him back and glistens on his golden skin.
“Bird girl. Didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”
With a teasing grin, he lifts one arm and wipes it across his forehead, which does nothing but make his abs look more defined. “Bear girl?” he tries again, with a cocky lift to one eyebrow. “You like that one better?”
All I do is glare at Weston, and all he does is smirk back.
