Rugged Rescue (Get Wilde Book 1) Read online

  “Starving.” His blue eyes crinkle at the corners, but he doesn’t laugh out loud, just tightens his grip on my elbow and starts to move us through the snow, back toward a Jeep that’s somehow parked at the edge of the ditch. “Can I get a ride home?”

  “Not a chance.”

  I cut my eyes toward him, but his mouth has become a straight line as he works to keep us both upright in the snow.

  “Are you serious?”

  “Look around, sweetheart.” There’s a half-hearted edge to his tone. “Driving right now would be a suicide mission. We’re going to get in my Jeep, and then we’re going to go to my house.”

  “What—” I want to argue with him, but damn it, I have to pee. “Where’s your house?”

  He jerks his head to the left. “About 500 yards that way. Don’t worry. It won’t be a long ride.”

  4

  Dawson

  India’s entire body relaxes when we climb into my Jeep, but her teeth don’t stop chattering. Her clothes must be as frozen as mine are, so I don’t waste any time with pleasantries. I just throw it into drive and press gently on the gas, the wheels catching on the snow.

  I didn’t lie to her. It’s not far to my house, which used to be a log cabin for some summer people. I gutted it and turned it into a place a human could actually live in for four seasons a year.

  When I park in front of the house, India’s door less than ten feet from the front entrance, she hesitates, her jaw clenching.

  So, as always, I lead the way. I push open my door and hop out, slamming it behind me, and then I go around to her side and open the door.

  “Are you coming?”

  “Yeah,” she says, and swallows hard. The paper grocery bags crackle as she pulls them a little tighter in to her chest and gathers herself to jump down. At least the snow isn’t so damn deep here. I spent all day yesterday plowing, and it looks like tomorrow I will be doing the same thing.

  Why the hell have I bothered staying here, in this godforsaken town in the middle of northern nowhere?

  Because you were hoping for this chance.

  I won’t even entertain that kind of bullshit, and I don’t know why the thought rings in my mind like a bell, but I have to look away from India. This isn’t a second chance. It’s just a fucking coincidence. It’s not like she came back to town to see me. Never has. Never will.

  I unlock and push open the door to the house and let India step inside first. My chest ebbs warm with pleasure when I hear the tiny gasp she tries to hide, standing stock-still in the entryway.

  “Holy shit, Dawson.” Her words sound surprised, soft, like she’s completely forgotten herself. I pull the storm door closed behind me, then step to her side and press the inner door shut, locking it against what, I don’t know. Nobody ever comes here, which is how I like it.

  India turns to face me. “Did you do all this yourself?”

  I shrug. “Most of it.”

  “It’s gorgeous.”

  She tears her eyes away from me and takes another look around, her eyes traveling slowly over the trim, the hardwood flooring, the gleaming but tiny kitchen. Her clothes drip water onto the tiling of the entryway, which leads directly into the kitchen—beyond it is my living room. It looks tiny as fuck from the outside, but I have a master bedroom and a guest room. It’s not some shitty hovel, like her parents probably think I live in, if they ever think of me at all these days.

  India takes one more step into the kitchen like she’s going to put the groceries on the counter, then looks down at the puddle beneath her. “Oh—I’m sorry.” A new flush of color comes to her cheeks and it just about undoes me right then and there. What is it about her that makes me forget, over and over, what she did to me for just long enough to think—?

  She’s kicking off her shoes, shoving them back toward the mat just inside the door, but her clothes are still soaked.

  “You have to get out of that stuff.”

  Her eyes narrow for a split second, and then her forehead wrinkles, her mouth opening, then closing.

  “I can dry them for you,” I try again, and every word is a dagger in my heart. My heart jitters against my ribs. I don’t know why I’m working so damn hard to make her think I don’t want to fuck her, right now, on the kitchen counter. Or even on the kitchen floor.

  Once the need to do that becomes an actual thought, it becomes almost fucking unbearable.

  “Here. Come on.”

  I step toward her and take the grocery bags from her hands, making contact with the delicate line of her wrist. She shivers at my touch, biting her lower lip, and then she looks down.

  I know that look.

  I could never forget that look.

  I put the bags on the counter and then move farther into the house, going five steps before I realize she’s not with me. She’s still just standing on the tiles, eyes locked on me even while she starts to shiver again.

  “You coming?”

  “Yes.”

  Her voice is soft, yielding, and I want more of it.

  But I can’t have it.

  She’s here because she crashed her fucking car into a ditch. God knows what her life is like now, but I’m not going to screw with it. Not after what happened back in school. I’m still fucking embarrassed over how much it shattered me not to be with her.

  I lead her through the living room and down the hall to the right, toward the guest bedroom and bathroom. There are clean towels already on the shelf inside. Nothing fancy, but fucking washed and dried, thanks.

  I press open the door and let her go in.

  “All yours.”

  I remodeled this bathroom last summer, tearing out some ugly as hell wallpaper from the sixties and replacing all of it with decent-looking paint and tile.

  India turns back to me, hugging her arms to her chest, and bites at her lip again. “Do you—do you mind if I take a shower? I’m freezing.”

  “I’m going to do the same. Towels are in that cabinet.” I gesture to a cabinet on her left.

  She draws in a sharp little breath, then nods.

  “If you want to leave your clothes outside the door, I’ll bring you some dry things.”

  Where the fuck is this nice guy act coming from?

  “Okay,” she whispers, and I back out before I can kiss her.

  5

  India

  The moment the door closes behind me, I reach for my hat and yank it off my head. It’s the first thing to land on the pristine countertop next to the gleaming sink. I’m so damn cold and wet that I can only appreciate how spotless this place is once I’m completely naked, my clothes dumped into a damp pile on the smooth tiling beneath my feet.

  I bundle them up into my arms and go back to the door. My hand trembles when I reach for the knob. Will he be out there, waiting for the clothes? Should I just wait until I’m done showering to put them out there?

  “Get over yourself,” I mumble. It’s Dawson Flint. He’s seen more than a peek at my naked breasts in the past.

  I crack the door and peer out, heart pounding, but he’s not there. The clothes fall to the floor with a dull thud, and then I close the door tightly behind me.

  I don’t flip the lock.

  Energy zings down the length of my spine as I scamper over to the shower and turn it on, the steamy water thundering down at full blast. Wait, I need a towel. The cabinet Dawson pointed toward a minute ago has a shelf with neatly folded towels, and I grab one and hang it on the hook just outside the shower before stepping in.

  He must have a huge…water tank. I can’t help laughing out loud that that’s the first thought to come to mind when I’m standing in Dawson Flint’s shower. But it’s true. If he’s showering right now, then there must be enough water for both of us. Or maybe he’s being a gentleman and letting me finish before he takes his.

  Another laugh tears from my throat, but it’s half in pain. Dawson Flint’s shower. After all that happened between us ten years ago, I’m surprised he even let me i
n his house.

  God, my dad was such an asshole back then. He never wanted to look past Dawson’s rough edges, no matter how much I loved him. I’ll never forget the night of my senior prom. Good ol’ Dad sat me down at the kitchen table and looked me straight in the eye.

  “Men like that never turn out to be worth anything.” His mouth was set in a thin line. “You’re my only daughter, India, and I know you’ve got feelings for the boy, but if you throw your life away on him…” Here he shook his head. “Your life will never amount to anything, either.”

  I shake my head hard under the stream of hot water, my chest aching. I’ve been so damn careful about choosing good men, the right men, since then, and what has it gotten me?

  I’m at my parents’ house alone for Christmas – again – because not one of those people ever lived up to his clean-cut, good boy image.

  They certainly aren’t the ones I think of when I’m lying awake at night. No, it’s always Dawson, although now my mental image of him pales in comparison to the real thing. He’s a man now, with a man’s build and a man’s confidence when he walks.

  The shower is stocked with neutral shampoos and soaps, and I spring into action, washing my hair and body with doubled-up efficiency to make up for the time I’ve spent moping underneath the water. I turn off the shower with a flick of my wrist and tug the towel from the hook, working it over my hair first.

  My cheeks go hot again at the thought of the clothes that might be waiting outside the door, even now.

  They must be his clothes.

  I tiptoe over to the door and lean toward it, ear over the seam in the door.

  Nothing.

  I pull it open an inch and a curl of steam escapes into the hallway. My clothes are gone, and there’s a pile of folded items that I snatch up as quickly as I can, heart in my throat.

  God, I need to get a grip.

  Back in the bathroom, I put them carefully on the counter and survey what he’s brought me.

  A pair of boxers—thoughtful, because my underwear and bra went out with the rest of the clothes—a t-shirt so soft I could sleep in it, an equally soft hoodie, and a pair of sweatpants that must be too small for him because they’re only slightly gigantic on me.

  I look ridiculous in his clothes, but they feel like heaven on my skin. Who knew cheap cotton could be so damn luxurious?

  I run my fingers through my hair, getting it into some semblance of order.

  Deep breath.

  I can’t stay in here forever, and so I surprise myself by jumping toward the door, yanking it open, and stepping out into the hall before I can think too hard about it.

  Dawson is in the living room, and when he hears me, he turns. His light hair is damp, and he wears a clean pair of jeans and a flannel button down, a gray t-shirt peeking out from underneath.

  He sees me and a smile flickers across his face.

  Maybe this doesn’t have to be a painful battle after all.

  “Come on out, India. You don’t have to stand in the hallway by yourself.”

  “I know.” I sound more confident than I feel. I go out into the light of the living room and spin around in front of him. “How do you like the outfit?”

  He opens his mouth, eyes ablaze with a look I recognize, and for a second I think he might say, “I’d like it better off.”

  But he presses his lips together instead and takes in a deep breath. “Looks good on you.”

  “Thanks.” I can’t help the little grin that appears on my face.

  “You still hungry?”

  Yes, but not for food.

  6

  Dawson

  I have to turn away from India so she doesn’t see that I have a raging hard-on that’s barely contained by my jeans. The sight of her wearing my clothes, the petite curves of her body hidden beneath the fabric, makes me want nothing more than to pull them off of her layer by layer until there’s nothing between us but the air.

  I can’t do that.

  To do that would be a mistake on par with falling for her in the first place, all those years ago.

  I tried to change fucking everything for her, and she rejected me anyway.

  Standing on her front porch, that goddamn bouquet clutched in my hands, and she’s shaking her head at me, eyes shining with tears.

  “It’s just not going to work out between us, Dawson,” she said, each word landing like a body blow. “We’re too…different. We want different things.”

  “Fuck,” I’d whispered under my breath, my mind struggling to wrap around what she was saying. “You’re joking, right? You’re kidding. This is—”

  “I’m not kidding, Dawson.”

  And then—Jesus, the worst part of it all—the limo pulling up to the curb behind my beat-up truck, Eric Powell climbing out in a tuxedo he probably owned because his family was so rich, and striding up next to me with an even bigger bouquet.

  “You trying to steal my date, Flint?” His eyes were narrow and cruel, and my throat tightened.

  “Fuck no,” I spat at him, and then I dropped the flowers on the porch and turned away.

  That was the last time I saw India Patrick until she crashed her car into the ditch thirty feet from my driveway.

  And now…

  Holy shit, she’s even hotter than she was back then. I bet she tastes just the same, though, minty and spicy and—

  “You trying to steal my groceries?” Her voice comes from behind me, from the kitchen door, and it’s a knife twist in my heart, but my cock jumps anyway.

  “What the hell did you even buy? An onion and Oreos? What is this stuff?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Random stuff that my mom wanted.”

  “What am I supposed to make with this?”

  “You’re cooking?” Her eyes sparkle in the recessed lighting. It cost a damn fortune, but it’s paying off right now.

  I look out the kitchen window. It’s still a whiteout. “Can’t leave. Nothing else to do.”

  The silence hangs between us, and I’d bet all the money I have that we’re both thinking the same thing.

  “Sure,” India says, like she’s not convinced.

  I pull the onion out of the bag. “I guess we’ll start with this.”

  She opens her hands. “It’s all yours.”

  Twenty minutes later, I’m sliding two plates of chicken and rice and hot peppers across the kitchen island and taking a seat. India has watched with rapt attention the entire time, leaning her hip against the counter, asking neutral questions and driving me fucking crazy with her very presence.

  She doesn’t hesitate over the food, stabbing a hearty bite of chicken with her fork and popping it into her mouth.

  “This is so good.”

  “It’s just chicken.”

  “Yeah, but with spices.”

  I let out a short laugh. “You really don’t cook, do you?”

  She shakes her head. “No. I never…got into it. Plus, where I live now—” India breaks off, glancing down at her lap. “In the city, there’s a ton of cheap takeout. I usually go for that kind of thing after work.”

  “What city?” My voice is soft, and I hate how this information has taken me aback. What, did I think she’d somehow moved to the city without me knowing?

  “Charlotte.”

  It’s three hours and a million miles away, as far as I’m concerned. It’s the biggest city in the state. People from here go there and they never come back.

  Except for on the holidays, when they then do stupid shit like crash into the ditch outside my house.

  “How long have you been there?”

  How long has she been that close, yet that far?

  “Since I graduated.”

  “For work?”

  “Yeah. A PR firm.”

  The thought of her going into the office every day in one of those tailored working woman outfits makes me hard again.

  “Wow. You’ve really made something out of yourself.”

  The corners of her mo
uth turn down, and she sets her fork on the edge of her plate.

  “You know, I didn’t…” She takes a breath that sounds like she’s on the verge of tears, but then she goes on. “This is really good. Thanks for the food. You didn’t have to do this,” she says, her voice so soft it’s almost inaudible.

  “I’m glad you made it out.” There’s an acidic edge to my tone, and I fucking hate it. I hate it. It usually serves me well in the bar when I’m dealing with nut jobs and drunks, but India…we were both young. Yeah, she broke my damn heart. We’re not those people anymore.

  “Yeah, well, it turns out I didn’t.”

  Her voice is strung tight with emotion, but I can’t say what she’s feeling.

  “You’ve got a career. You’re just back for the holidays, right?”

  “Yes.” It comes out as a whisper, and she clears her throat. “I didn’t plan to run into you.”

  “Why would you?”

  “Because—” She sets her jaw. “Because I’ve thought of you every day since—”

  “We don’t have to recap.”

  She slaps one hand down on the island’s surface. “Every day, Dawson.”

  “Why are you telling me this now?”

  She doesn’t answer with words. She leans over, takes my face in both of her hands, and kisses me.

  Hard.

  7

  India

  The air between us is taut with all the things we’ve haven’t said for ten years, and with every word out of Dawson’s mouth my heart beats faster and faster. I want to eat the rest of the chicken and rice—it’s damn delicious—but when he starts in on “getting out” there’s something in his eyes that’s so raw I can’t put another bite in my mouth.