Page 43 of Wild Highway (Runaway 2)

“Okay.” One of those long legs lifted and in a swift motion she was up.

That should not have been a sexy move but my dick jerked. Her legs, encased in faded jeans, were at eye level. When she bent, I had the perfect view of her ass and my palms twitched, wanting to squeeze her curves and mold them to mine. Fuck. This was the reason I’d been avoiding her for two weeks. Because every night when I went home, I had to jack off in the shower to the image of her legs wrapped around my hips and my greedy hands on her body.

Gemma and I argued. We were at each other’s throats, and it was because if we didn’t fight this attraction, if we gave in . . . we’d be doomed.

I dropped my gaze and focused on the job at hand, refusing to look at her until the work was done.

When the last log was stacked, she hopped down and I slammed the tailgate closed.

“Thanks.” She removed the gloves I’d lent her and handed them over.

“No problem.”

“How long did it take to cut and split all that?”

I shrugged. “A few hours.”

This was what I’d done yesterday when I’d escaped to work alone.

“I appreciate it,” she said.

“I know.” Gemma, unlike a lot of people with her substantial wealth, appreciated effort from others. I waved and walked to my truck door, opening it up and was about to get in when she stopped me.

“Easton?”

“Yeah?”

“Want to stay for dinner?”

If I stayed, we’d probably get in a fight. It would be smarter to decline—I had work to do, and I’d already planned to stop by the

lodge and grab dinner. Instead, I tossed the gloves into the truck and slammed the door. “Yeah.”

It wasn’t about the food.

It was Gemma.

She dropped her chin, hiding her smile as she walked past me and into the cabin.

I followed, toeing off my boots beside her shoes inside the door, then went to the fireplace to add another log. “Is it staying warm enough in here at night?”

“It’s been great. Very cozy.” She went to the fridge. “Beer, water or chocolate milk?”

Chocolate milk was a staple in my diet but I saw she had a glass of wine poured. “Beer, please.”

She took out an amber bottle and twisted off the top, bringing it over for me in the living room. Then she returned to the kitchen where she’d been in the middle of chopping when I’d arrived. “We’re having spaghetti.”

“Want some help?”

“No, I’m good. This is easy.”

I took a seat on the couch and looked around the room. It was the same cabin I’d known my whole life, the same furniture, but there was something different about it. It was cozier and more . . . intimate. Maybe that was because the wind was blowing outside, rustling the trees, and in here, there was the crackle of a fire, the scent of garlic and onions, and a beautiful woman standing in the kitchen, sipping wine and making us a meal.

It was impossible not to watch her as she moved. To appreciate the sway of her hips and the way her ponytail swished across the middle of her back. A lock of hair kept falling from where she’d tucked it behind her ear, and anytime she’d glance my way, there was a rosy flush to her cheeks.

She was bewitching. She pulled me into an alternate universe where there was just us.

“So you went from here to Boston, right?” I asked, needing to make some conversation before I did something hasty like get off this couch to kiss her in the kitchen. I didn’t need to taste Gemma’s lips. I had once and they’d been sweet and destructive, like a poisoned apple. So I’d keep my ass on this couch until it was time to leave.