Call Me Wild (9 page)

Jessie needed to get her mind off the fact that the guy was beautiful, built, and although she wouldn’t go as far as to call him bright, he maybe not as dim as she’d first suspected. She’d never had problems dealing with good-looking men before. She would treat Fisher just like she did every pro sports player she’d ever worked with. She just wished her body would cooperate.

When they finally made it back to her car, she opened the door to sit. He walked right on past, and she couldn’t help but notice the way he filled out his jeans and T-shirt. Oh yeah, if she had to design a dream body, it would be Fisher’s, although it would have a different head attached. It wasn’t as if his face wasn’t perfect, it was. Jessie just wanted her dream man to have a different mind-set. He’d be a man on a mission—and not for the perfect tan. No, her man would have direction and goals. If she were ever to get into a relationship, even for a short time, she’d want a man who was maybe not wealthy, since she wasn’t interested in anyone else’s money, but he’d have a career he loved and the ability to support himself without having to live with his mother. He’d be comfortable with himself, which, despite Fisher’s circumstances, he was, and then some. Fisher looked as if he was on top of the world, which just told her he was delusional.

Fisher stepped behind an old Toyota Land Cruiser that looked as if it was held together with duct tape and rubber bands, and opened the back with an earsplitting creak that bounced off every hard surface. He hauled over a beat-up toolbox that was in the same shape as his Toyota and disappeared behind her car. “Looks like you took out the power steering pump and the oil pan.”

“That’s not good.” She walked to the passenger side and squatted beside him to look underneath. His body was so big he barely had room to reach under the car.

“I’m not going to be able to fix it without a lift. We’ll have it towed to my garage—I have a lift there. I’ll order the parts, and then rig it with a skid plate to protect your power steering pump and oil pan. Damn, it looks as if the pump has a fan too.” He slid his shoulder out and sat up like he was doing a crunch.

Crouched down, she was eye to eye with him. “You don’t have to do that. I’ll just have it towed to the dealership.”

He shook his head.

What? Was she speaking in tongues or something? He looked as if he hadn’t even heard her.

He stood and slapped the dust from the butt of his jeans. “I’ll just push it off the trail, so no one else will hit it. Get your things and put them in my Cruiser.”

There was no point in arguing; he wouldn’t hear her anyway. Jessie grabbed her purse, duffel, and messenger bag.

Fisher took them off her hands—obviously not a man who had a problem carrying a girl’s purse. “Pop the trunk, so I can get the beer and wine. No use letting it go to waste.”

“I can get it.”

“Suit yourself.” He set her things on the bench seat of his Toyota as she waited with the liquor box containing a few six-packs and two bottles of her favorite Shiraz. When he reached for it, his hand met hers, and his brows rose until she let go. She stepped back and hugged her sweatshirt to her. “Go ahead and get in if you’re cold.” He handed her the keys. “I’ll just push your car out of the way.”

“Don’t you need help?” At least she’d found her voice.

Fisher looked over his shoulder. “You’re kidding, right?”

Guess not. Men. She could really do without the whole I-am-man macho thing. She’d seen enough of that in her years as a sports reporter to last a lifetime.

He pushed her seat all the way back, put her car in neutral, and with the driver’s side door open, gave it a push. You’d think the car weighed no more than a grocery cart the way he steered it off the path and over the ruts. He pushed it well off the trail before he put the car in gear and set the brake. He tossed her keys to her and jumped into the Toyota. “Next time, you might not want to abandon your car with the keys in it.”

“I’ll make a note of that. Thanks.”

He started up the Cruiser and looked over. “Buckle up. It’s going to be a bumpy ride.”

“Right.” Jessie did as he asked, and then turned toward the window. This car was five times the size of hers, but as soon as Fisher got in, it seemed to shrink. Maybe it had to do with the size of his overinflated ego.

They drove in silence. Fisher turned off the jeep track onto what looked like a path that animals used. The Cruiser bumped along the uneven trail. When they crested a ridge, it was as if the cabin jumped out in front of them.

Oh my Lord, she’d thought Karma had meant a cabin in the woods, like a bungalow. This place was massive and looked more like an expensive ski chalet than a cabin. It was made of huge split logs with enormous windows, and a gleaming, high-pitched, green metal roof. It was all sharp angles and majesty. She sat there, taking it all in. “It’s beautiful.”

Fisher shrugged and grabbed the box of beer and wine.

“What are you doing?”

“Taking your things inside.”

She scrambled out to stop him. “Why?”

He set the box on the hood of his truck, his fingers denting the cardboard. “Do you have a problem with me giving you a hand? Is that it? If you want to do it yourself, have at it.” He left the box sitting on the hood and opened the tailgate.

“No, I mean why take it in? We’re just going to turn around and go back to Boise.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not getting back into my truck until after I have at least eight hours of uninterrupted sleep.” He walked past her with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

“You’re staying here? With me?”

Fisher stopped and turned, exhaustion oozing from his every pore. “Don’t get your panties in a knot. There are six bedrooms. We won’t be sharing if that’s what you’re afraid of. You can take one on the other side of the cabin for all I care.” He rubbed his stubbled chin. She hadn’t really noticed it before because he was so blond, but the way the sun hit his face made the stubble on it shine and the dark smudges beneath his eyes more pronounced.

“I’ll drive.”

“Do you honestly think I’m gonna let you drive my baby after what you did to your car? Not in this lifetime. Now, do you want me to help you inside with your stuff or not?”

“No. I want to go home.”

“Call Karma then.” He tossed her his phone. “I’m going in, making something to eat, and then going to bed. Alone.”

Fisher dragged ass to the front door. Were all women as exasperating as Jessica and Karma? With his luck the answer would be yes.

He unlocked the place, tossed his bag on the bed in the bedroom he always used, and listened for Jessica. She was probably still standing outside fuming. Damn her. Hadn’t she caused enough trouble for one day? She’d already scared the life out of him with that stunt she pulled climbing a fuckin’ mountain when she was afraid of heights. Who the hell did that? And now, she expected him to turn around and take her home?

He went back through the cabin, wishing he could just fall into bed, but he needed to keep an eye on her. He didn’t trust her not to go off half-cocked and pull another stupid stunt. Fisher stopped at the door and found Jessica standing right where he’d left her. “If you’re waiting for me to change my mind about leaving, it’s not going to happen. Not today. Possibly not even tomorrow. I need to sleep.” And from the looks of it, so did she, but he was smart enough to keep that observation to himself. “Did you call Karma?”

“No.”

“Then what are you doing?”

She shook her head. Some of the thick hair she’d gathered into a ponytail loosened and curled around her chin. She was really beautiful in a Lara Croft, Tomb Raider kind of way. “Fine. I’ll come in. I don’t have much of a choice.”

“True.” He didn’t wait for her before raiding the kitchen to see what he could make for dinner. He was starving. With his head in the freezer, he called out, “You don’t have anything against red meat, do you?”

“No.”

“Good. Then we’re having steak for dinner.” He took two steaks out and wondered if he should grab a third. He figured if there was a question, he might as well. They could always have steak and eggs for breakfast in the morning. It wouldn’t go to waste with him there. He heard Jessica plop the box of beer and wine on the counter and then head back out to the truck. Stubborn woman. He’d have carried all her things in for her if she’d stop treating him like a leper.

He pulled a few potatoes out of the bin and scrubbed them within an inch of their lives. Hell, he took off most of the skin. He was so damn pissed his hands shook. He grabbed a cold beer and everything he needed for a salad. It was a good thing Hunter and Toni left the place stocked just a few days ago. There was plenty of fresh food to hold them for as long as they wanted to stay. If he had his way, it would be awhile. A long weekend in the mountains was just what the doctor ordered.

He twisted off the cap of the beer and took a big swig just as Jessica dragged the rest of her things through the door. “Take your pick of bedrooms. I tossed my stuff on the bed of the room that I use. You can use Karma’s room at the end of the hall if you want. She won’t mind, but you might. She’s kind of a pig.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

She obviously didn’t know Karma well, but that wasn’t his problem. He’d be sure to tell her about how when they were kids, Karma’s room looked more like a nasty science experiment than a bedroom. Hell, her apartment still did, unless she expected company. It seemed that the clean gene skipped her entirely—another reason he and his brothers questioned if she had been switched at birth. He shook his head and wondered when Karma would stop giving the family grief.

Fisher oiled and rubbed Kosher salt on what was left of the skins on the potatoes, poked them a few times with a fork, and stuck them in the oven to bake. He tossed the steaks in the microwave to defrost and finished off his beer while he made a salad.

By the time Jessica reappeared, the steaks were almost defrosted. She came out of Karma’s room carrying a laptop, set it on the bar next to the kitchen, and booted it up.

“There’s a desk in the study if you want to work there. I can clean it off for you.”

She peered at him over the screen as if she questioned his motives. Women.

He shrugged. “I just thought you might be more comfortable there. But work wherever you like.”

“Thanks. I’m fine here. I’m good at tuning things out when I work.”

She’d already tuned him out, which was just as well. He was in no mood to deal with her, not when the fear he’d felt when she’d been missing was still so fresh in his mind. He’d done search and rescue in these parts, and he’d never felt the way he had today. Heck, he hadn’t even known if she was in trouble. It didn’t stop the nightmare scenarios from racing through his mind at the speed of light. He didn’t want to think about what that meant. Maybe the lack of sleep was catching up to him.

After checking the freezer for vanilla ice cream, he grabbed a jar of his mother’s peaches and threw together a quick cobbler. He hadn’t had a decent dessert in ages. Since he had to be awake, he might as well keep cooking.

When he had the salad made and everything cooking, he headed to his room, pulling off his shirt on the way. He debated whether or not to just trash it, but tossed it into the hamper in his bedroom. He’d grab a quick shower, so after the dinner dishes were done he could crash.

***

Jessie did her best to ignore the way Fisher moved around the kitchen as if he had been born in one. He seemed to know where everything was, and more importantly, what to do with it. She’d learned more trying to ignore him than she had from all the cooking shows she’d ever watched put together. Granted, there hadn’t been a lot of those, but still, everything Fisher did, whether he was massaging her leg, crawling under her car, or putting together a meal, was impressive.

The man had taken a weird-shaped jar of what looked like peaches, poured them into a pan, juice and all, and then without measuring a darn thing, dumped a bunch of ingredients into a bowl, stirred it together with a fork, sprinkled it on top of the peaches, and popped it into the oven like a pro.

Whatever he’d concocted smelled heavenly. He hadn’t even set the oven timer. How would he know when everything was done?

The sound of a distant shower running filled the silence. And it was silent here; she didn’t think she’d ever been anywhere so quiet. She and Andrew had taken a few camping trips, but there were always other people around. The silence told her that she and Fisher were really alone. And like Fisher had said, there might not be another person for miles.

She listened to the clock tick in the next room, the refrigerator hum, and the sound of her own breathing before opening iTunes and playing something, anything to keep her from thinking about Fisher naked with water running down his body.

Yeah, that picture wasn’t helping her write her romance. She wasn’t sure what would, since reading them wasn’t helping either. She’d read a half dozen and invariably ended up losing herself in the story every time. She’d forgotten the reason she was reading them in the first place was to dissect them, see how they were written, and figure out the damn formula. She had to admit, the formula had taken a backseat to the stories. They were good, and hot, and sexually frustrating. They did nothing but leave her edgy and hanging and looking at Fisher through rose-colored glasses.

She opened her new writing program and pulled up the character sketch loaded on it. Name… hmm… Frederick. No, Frederick wasn’t a sexy name. Fisher was, but that would be too weird. God forbid he bought it and found his name in the damn book. He’d think she’d written about him. Like that was going to happen. He so wasn’t hero material. Frank? No, not sexy. And what was it with the letter
F
? Shaun? Seth. Oh yeah, Seth was a sexy name. Seth Kirkland. That would work.

Role in Story: Hero.

Occupation: Not a bum.

Physical Description: There’s something wild about him, maybe it’s his curly platinum blond hair, which has a mind of its own, but no matter what, makes a girl’s fingers itch to run through it. It could be the blond stubble that accentuates his square jaw when the light hits it just right, or the forest green eyes with blue around the irises—the man might as well have a sign across his forehead that says Call Me Wild.

Hmm… that wouldn’t be a bad title for the book.
Call
Me
Wild.
She filled in the title and went back to the description. Fisher—no, dammit—delete, delete, delete, delete, delete, delete. Seth is tall and muscular, but not muscle-bound, with long lashes and dark eyebrows that make you think the hair is either out of the bottle or sun-bleached.

Fisher didn’t seem the type to dye his hair, so she figured his was sun-bleached. Yeah. Okay, so her hero looked a little like Fisher, but people always say to write what you know. In the last few weeks she’d spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about and watching Fisher Kincaid. It was her job as a journalist to people watch, and since Fisher and Karma were the only people she knew in Boise, it made perfect sense to study them. That wasn’t so odd when you thought about it in a realistic light, and if she could be called anything, it was a realist.

“Working hard?”

She jumped and almost fell off the bar stool. “Don’t sneak up on me like that. You scared me.”

“Sorry.” He smiled, but he didn’t look the least bit contrite. He’d shaved. The scent of shaving cream and Ivory soap assaulted her. He’d changed into a clean pair of jeans and a white T-shirt. His wet hair hit the collar, leaving damp spots around the neck and shoulders. He ran his hand through it, and the curls took shape. It looked darker when it was wet, almost golden.

“I was going to start the steaks. They’ll take about fifteen minutes, depending how you like yours. Is that all right?”

“Is what all right?”

“Do you want to eat in about twenty minutes? Are you at a good stopping point, or do you want me to wait awhile?”

“I thought you were starving.”

He opened the oven just enough to peek in, and then closed it before turning back to her. “I’m hungry, but I can throw together a snack if you need more time.”

“No, but thanks. Twenty minutes will be fine. I don’t want to keep you waiting on me.”

He leaned against the counter and crossed his bare feet in front of him. “It’s not a big deal.”

Maybe it wasn’t a big deal to him, but it was to her. She’d never had a guy cook for her, and certainly not one who offered to serve her when she was at a convenient stopping point. “I’m a little hungry too.” And she was. The smell of that peach thing he was baking made her mouth water.

“I’d offer to help, but I’m useless in the kitchen. I do excel at setting a table though.” She slid off the bar stool and headed into the kitchen. “I’ll set the table, if you just show me where the plates are—”

He took her by the shoulders and nudged her back to her computer. “No, you came up here to work, so work. I can take care of the table while the steaks are cooking. I don’t want to disturb you. Can I get you a beer, some wine?”

“A beer would be great.” She looked at the next line of her character sketch.

Personality: Hmm… he’s considerate and sensitive to the heroine’s needs. Like offering to wait on dinner until the heroine is at a good stopping point in her work. He’s sincere, polite, smart, and funny, of course.

He pulled a beer out of the refrigerator and poured it into an iced mug. “Here you go.” He slid it across the bar.

“Thanks.” She sipped the beer and sneaked peeks at him as he seasoned the steaks. He washed his hands and then rubbed the seasoning into the meat. She’d never been jealous of a slab of beef before. She sure was now.

After washing his hands again, he put the meat on the grill. The scent and sound of sizzling meat stopped any progress she’d been making.

Habits/Mannerisms: Seth is a darn good cook and is a real health food nut. He’s in great shape and runs every day. Drinks a lot of coffee, but not the designer girly drinks. He flirts with everyone female, but then doesn’t seem to take anything too seriously—well, except for having survival gear in your car and poor parking habits.

Even though Fisher had turned on the fan, the scent of grilling meat made it impossible to think of anything other than food. Okay, food and the way he looked with a man’s grilling apron tied around his waist. Any other guy would look like the Galloping Gourmet, but not Fisher—it only framed his perfect butt in faded denim. The jeans were tight. They fit like a well-worn glove, lovingly hugging his tush.

He reached for a bowl in an upper cabinet, his arm muscles rippling and stretching the sleeves of his T-shirt. God, she had to stop this—it was maddening.

“What are you making now?”

He looked over his shoulder and seemed surprised to find her staring at him. “Salad dressing.”

“What? You’ve never heard of store-bought?”

Fisher looked as if he were trying not to laugh as he gathered spices. “Why would I buy dressing when it’s so easy to make, and it tastes ten times better? Do you want Italian, Greek, Ranch, Thousand Island, or French?”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I’m not in the mood to make Caesar. I’d have to coddle an egg and peel a bunch of garlic. Plus, I don’t have fresh lemons, and I’d have to open a whole can of anchovies—”

“Gag.”

“Not a fan of anchovies, huh?”

“That’s putting it mildly. I am a huge fan of ranch dressing though.”

“Good. That’s easy.”

He pulled plain yogurt and mayonnaise out of the refrigerator, and then vinegar, and even more spices out of another cabinet. She’d never seen so many spices used in one dish. He scooped out yogurt and mayo without measuring again, poured in the vinegar and spices, and whisked it together in less than a minute. He dipped the tip of a spoon into the bowl and held it across the counter for her. “Taste and tell me that doesn’t beat any ranch dressing you’ve ever had.” He cupped his hand below the spoon so it wouldn’t drip on her laptop.

She bent forward as he slipped the spoon into her mouth. Their eyes met, and she was certain hers almost rolled to the back of her head. God, it was tangy and tart and creamy and smooth. It was heavenly, and he was right. She’d never had anything even remotely as good as Fisher’s homemade dressing. “Oh God, how’d you learn how to make that?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I just experimented. It’s not a big deal.”