Eight
Jameson downshifted so that he could take the hill into camp a little slower. As eager as he was to get back to the Ring of Fire, he didn’t need to fishtail and slide into a tree. Maybe he should have stayed longer with Rex and Gemma, though, because at least at that dinky little bar there hadn’t been any temptation to rap on the door of Cabin 5 and have his way with the mountain lion shifter.
He shook his head, trying to block out the thoughts.
But there she was, outside, bent over the ground near her truck. Sick? She was leaning over a tub. Strange.
He killed the engine and climbed out, then took big strides toward her. His brain kept telling him this was a terrible idea, but the grizzly inside of him was practically tap-dancing in circles, crazy happy that he was finally going to talk to her, finally going to smell her. He’d be close enough to touch her, and watch her hazel eyes light up with surprise and then darken with lust.
He’d imagined it way too many times.
Stomping over, he said, “What are you doing?”
She stood up. “Cleaning my truck.”
Now that he looked, he could see orange paint splattered over the side. “What the hell is this?”
“You tell me, Mr. Alpha. Your clan did this. Or some of them, anyway. Seems they’re a little out of control.”
He scowled.
“Either that,” she said, “or they did this on your orders.”
“Hell, woman, you know I wouldn’t tell them to do that.”
“Really? Because you’ve been making me feel so welcome here?”
He sighed. “It’s not like that.”
“Really.” She put a hand on her hip, got a sassy little expression on her face. If he weren’t furious about her truck, he’d be laughing right now. She continued, “Then tell me what it is like, because from my standpoint, hauling trees and rocks around this place, it seems like you don’t want me around.”
He rubbed a hand through his hair. It bothered him that she didn’t know the truth—that she couldn’t know the truth. And it wasn’t just Asshole Jake and Erena and Carl. It was Jameson’s own out-of-control desire. His fear. He couldn’t tell her that. So he took a deep breath and said, “It’s more that I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
Nina pursed her lips. “Save it. I don’t need to hear that anymore. Just leave me in peace so I can try to get this paint off before it dries.”
“Hang on, I’ll help you.” He reached into the bucket, looking for another rag. Finding one, he wrung it out and started rubbing against the surface of her truck. The paint smeared, and he swore. “They’re gonna pay for this, okay? I don’t let my clan get away with this kind of shit.”
She scrubbed in silence.
He looked at her truck again. “What does it say, anyway?”
“Please don’t,” Nina said in a small voice.
“But—oh.” The outlines of the letters were faint, but he could just see them. His voice thudded out against his will. “Nobody really thinks that.”
“Look, I don’t care what they think,” she said. “There’s absolutely nothing wrong with having pants feelings—”
He laughed. “There it is again, that phrase. Pants feelings.”
She looked at him with an inquisitive expression on her face.
“What?” he asked.
“Where’d you hear about pants feelings?”
“Gemma. She said something about it…a little while ago.”
“Anyway, don’t worry about it,” Nina said. “Even if I were a cat in heat which I obviously am not, there is nothing to be ashamed of. I’m just pissed about Phil.”
Jameson raised his eyebrows. “Phil?”
“My truck.” Nina patted the hood.
“You gave your truck a masculine name?”
She rolled her eyes. “So?”
“So nothing. It’s just different. Anyway, let’s get Phil cleaned up.” Jameson wielded his rag once more.
The vandals had spread the words across the driver’s side door. He worked closely with Nina, scrubbing all that he could. The paint was stubborn, but a lot of it came off, too. He went to dip his rag into the bucket again, but he hit Nina’s head with his own.
“Ow,” she said, rubbing her forehead.
He dropped his rag and reached out to keep her from falling, but of course she had great balance, and instead he found himself with his hands resting lightly on her forearms, his mouth too close to hers. He leaned forward. Suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to press his lips to hers. He looked at her mouth, at her full lips.
Then he came to his senses and spun away. “I gotta go,” he said. “I’ll have the rest of your truck cleaned off as soon as I can. Tomorrow your job will be to spread some gravel around that area where you cleared trees, so I hope you’ve still got your muscles.”
She huffed. “If anything, my muscles are bigger than they were, after the tree clearing. I could probably kick your ass.”
He couldn’t keep the flirty words inside, and said, “If you were sticking around, we’d have to test that theory.”
Before she could respond, he marched into his cabin and slammed the door behind him.
He peered through the curtains. Nina was still washing her truck. He should be out there helping her. He wanted to be. But after another minute of pointless scrubbing, she dunked her rag in the bucket and hauled it away.
Oh, all the chances he was losing. They were like poems he refused to write down. Here, and then gone.