Tempted Read online

  “What sounds right?” I protest.

  He chuckles again. “Nothing. Let’s get you back to my place so I can patch you up. And find you some pants to borrow.”

  I groan with embarrassment. My cheeks are most certainly bright red.

  Jameson stalks off down the hill as if I weigh nothing.

  “So… you come here often?” I ask, desperate to fill the silence, else my mind will over focus on the whole, peed my pants in front of a hot guy issue. Good thing I’m generally pretty adapt at rolling with weird situations. A necessity in my job. And to be honest, this isn’t the strangest situation I’ve found myself in over the years.

  The man raises an eyebrow at me. Okay, maybe he’s not into my kind of humor. He steps over a large log which jostles me, and I wince as my ankle flops around.

  “You okay?” he asks, pausing in his tracks.

  “All good here,” I say with a tight throat. Do not cry. Do not cry. I chant to myself. Tripping, falling ass up in the air, I feel like I have enough going for me tonight. Or this morning. Or whatever the fuck time it is.

  As we walk up to the very rustic two-story home on the edge of what looks like a dangerously high cliff, Jameson sidesteps to get us through the door. Should I be questioning going into a stranger’s house right now? Probably. And I have no idea why, but I’m rolling with it. A little help would be, well, helpful right now. And relying on helpful locals has gotten me through a couple of jams in the past.

  The heat in here is niiiice. A sweet relief to be honest. I take stock around me. It’s funny, because it looks almost like a pottery barn catalog with the spare buoys, comically large fish hooks, old wooden boxes, hand tools, snowshoes… but I know most likely all these objects are here because they are essential for survival in remote places like this, not because he thinks they look cute.

  “Charming place you got here,” I compliment him as he walks us upstairs—still carrying me by the way.

  He grunts in reply and sets me down on a rustic butcher-block kitchen table, then he disappears into a back room. A few moments later, he returns with a pair of gray sweatpants.

  “Ooh la. Gray sweatpants,” I say suggestively, pumping my eyebrows up and down. His face twists again in confusion. Maybe the whole gray sweatpants thing isn’t well known in a remote town of a hundred people.

  “What?” he asks. “Are these not okay? I assume they are better than pee pants.” His voice is deep and there’s no humor to his words. He doesn’t sound angry either. Maybe it’s just curiosity? Unless I found a real-life tin man. That’s entirely possible, because the man has barely cracked a smile at my top-notch humor.

  That has me laughing. “They are. Thank you. It’s just… gray sweatpants… dick prints…” I whisper those last words, not really sure it’s professional, or appropriate, for me to say as much. But hell, I’m pretty much at rock bottom here, so what do I have to lose?

  He shakes his head at me, his lack of understanding would be comical if my pride wasn’t so wounded at the moment. “Do you need help changing?”

  I use my good hand to tug at my waistband as I roll side to side, trying to work down the pants. Jameson looks at the floor, glancing back at me, then at the floor again.

  Finally, I give up with a huff. “Yes, please. That’d be nice.”

  That earns me a little smirk as he steps toward me, his big boots clomping against the wood floor. He slowly undoes my shoelaces, carefully removing each hiking boot.

  “This looks bad,” he says as he inspects my offending ankle.

  “It’s not great,” I admit with a nod.

  Jameson frowns at my words, but sets to work slowly peeling off my pants. He carries them over to a big silver basin that must be his sink, then he puts a kettle of water in the fireplace, which has all but burnt to embers.

  “What were you doing out there?” I ask as I wait awkwardly, in my white cotton briefs, legs in the air, on a strange man’s dining-room table. Ya know, just a regular Tuesday.

  “Checking the snares. I heard we’re having guests tomorrow for breakfast, thought I’d see if I could get a little more to go around.”

  “Ah yes. Hello. I am one of said guests. What an introduction, ay?” I ask, amusement on my face as I look down at my shame. It’s either laugh or cry, and I’m sure as shit not crying. Fuck that. I’ve already spent the last few months crying over my ex. Yeah, I said months. We broke up but still lived together. In case anyone is ever wondering about that, it’s a huge mistake.

  Jameson grabs a towel and opens the lid to the kettle. Steam rises gently out of it. Apparently satisfied with his work, he carries it over to the tub and pours it over my pants. I close my eyes as a steady pang of humiliation radiates through me. I’ve never had a man handwash my clothes. When I open my eyes again, he’s walking toward me with a steamy cloth in hand.

  Without missing a beat, he reaches toward me with the rag, as if he’s planning to wipe me up. I snatch his wrist and stop him. My hand barely reaches halfway around it. “Thanks, big guy, but I got it.”

  He shrugs and takes a few steps back, planting himself on a chair across from me.

  “You going to watch?” I ask, holding the quickly cooling rag in hand.

  He looks at his boots and I make quick work of wiping my legs down. Then I peel off my underwear, despite the way my wrist aches in response, and slip into his sweats. When I look up again, he’s staring right at me. Excellent. Apparently, Alaskan mountain men have different manners than I’m used to.

  Finally sensing his cue, about five minutes too late, Jameson stands and walks around the cabin, gathering a long strand of fabric and a few straightish scraps of wood. Then he binds my ankle and wrist.

  “How are your ribs?” he asks as he finishes.

  “Fine,” I lie.

  “Let me see,” he nods at me.

  I roll my eyes and lift my shirt, holding my boobs up, since my bra was abandoned before I fell asleep, and I ain’t trying to give him another free show. When a man meets me, he only sees my butt in the first five minutes. That’s my new rule.

  He reaches out, fingers brushing the discolored flesh. I hiss in reply.

  “I don’t have any ice, but I’ll get a bag of water for ‘ya. Straight from the Alaskan ocean, might as well be ice.” He goes toward the door.

  “Wait,” I gasp. “Can I perhaps sit…” I nod toward his couch, which looks much more comfortable than this wooden table. I mean, I’m all for being propped up on a table by a hot guy, but this is neither the time nor place.

  He nods, scooping me up swiftly again, and carries me over to the sofa. The way he sets me down is so gentle, he even lowers himself to his knees beside the couch, so as not to jostle me too much. It’s incredibly tender of him. I can’t say I’m used to such treatment.

  “Uh, thanks,” I mutter as I swallow the hard lump in my throat. It feels like he’s gone for a long time, so I decide to let my weary eyes fall closed.

  When I wake up again, the sun is just rising in the distance, I can see out the big picture window, straight out into the ocean. The view is incredible.

  Apparently, Jameson put the cold, water bag on my ankle. It’s room temperature now though, and I carefully sit on the floor. The one good thing is that while my ankle is purple and swollen so large there’s no way it’s going back in a shoe, my wrist feels fine. I roll it around to test it. Yup. All good. Look at me, the girl with two working wrists. That’s got to bode well for me.

  Easing myself onto the floor, I scootch across the rough wood toward the thin tendril of light peeking from down a hallway. Maybe there is an indoor bathroom here. Please, let there be an indoor bathroom. I pull with my arms like some creepy serpent, spotting what indeed looks like a gleaming porcelain bowl at the end of the hall, just visible through a half open door. Hallelujah!

  I work my way down the hall, peering through the crack of a slightly ajar door as I pass. And there he is, my mountain man, one hand on his dresser, head hanging do
wn as he aggressively… passionately… pleases himself.

  My chest seizes at the sight. His breathing is hard and ragged, sweat is dripping off him. Full birthday suit. Fuck those sculpted muscles. L.A. guys pay an arm and leg for that sort of body. Apparently, you need only live on the side of a cliff in the remote wilderness to obtain it.

  Man, he’s really going at it. I should definitely continue my quiet journey on the floor. Reaching out, I drag myself, neck craning against my will to steal more glances at Jameson as he clearly reaches his crescendo.

  “Fuck,” he whisper-groans as our eyes connect, and he seems to finish, simultaneously. Gasp. He tugs on a pair of long underwear, and I quickly drag my body from the doorway, getting a few feet further until I see the light flood from behind me, a shadow taking over the space.

  “What are you doing?” Jameson asks, still slightly out of breath.

  “Who me?” I pause and turn to look up at him. “Oh, just dragging myself across your floor toward the toilet,” I say awkwardly.

  There is the faintest blush on his cheeks as he searches my face.

  “I didn’t see anything,” I say in my most convincing voice, which I realize a beat later only means I definitely did. The blush on his face deepens in response.

  “Come on,” he groans, stepping to me and lifting me from the ground, dragging me like a rag doll the short distance. He throws my arms over his shoulders and then tugs my pants right down.

  “Uh, thanks,” I say, not quite sure the proper protocol here, but pretty sure asking permission before you take down a lady’s pants is in order, even if she did just drag her body across your floor like a beached whale.

  Jameson stares at me expectantly.

  “I can take it from here,” I salute him. I swear he holds back a smirk as he turns to leave me.

  His footsteps softly fall down the hall, then he stops at what I assume must be the kitchen.

  Not two seconds after the toilet flushes, Jameson is back, lifting me up and taking the sweats so high they almost hit my tits. Before I can even begin to comprehend what kind of insane situation I’ve found myself in, he carries me back to the couch, where I see my hand-washed pants are drying over a fire.

  There’s a frantic banging on the door downstairs, and he gives me a quick look before rushing off to get it. I hear Evie’s voice clearly, then Beth’s. Then three sets of feet pounding up the stairs. The way they burst into the room, looking around, they must have expected me to be in little cut-up pieces.

  “Morning, friends,” I say with a laugh.

  “What the hell, Jolie?” Evie hisses, voice tight with worry.

  “My bad, babe. Went to pee, looooong story short, hurt my ankle. Jameson brought me back here,” I recap.

  “She peed her pants, too,” Jameson adds, matter-of-factly.

  Beth and Evie look at me, then to him, then back to me. “Is he serious?”

  “As a shot. Yes,” I nod. Note to self, Jameson doesn’t know how to joke around, or how to lie.

  “Whew. I was going to say… I mean… you’re wearing his pants,” Evie bites her lip.

  Beth kneels down toward my purple swollen ankle and pulls up the long leg of the sweats slowly. “Golly. This thing is brutal.”

  “Yuppers,” I confirm. “Definitely not getting a shoe on. Can you film without me? Hey, unless you need footage from inside the tent. I got you covered then.”

  “The tent?” Jameson asks, looking bewildered.

  “Oh yeah. I can’t impose any more on you, big guy. Thanks for all your help. Evie and Beth can help me back to the tent—” I start to say.

  “No,” he says, cutting me off.

  “No?” I ask curiously. Who is this guy anyway?

  The large man, who I am very aware I just saw jacking off this morning, continues, “You’ll heal faster in here. There’s warmth, a toilet, and water…”

  “The lap of luxury,” I laugh, genuinely meaning it.

  He frowns. “Or go back to your tent—”

  “No. She was actually being serious. But yes. Thank you. If you don’t mind…” Evie interrupts him, giving me a stern look.

  I nod. “She’s right. I have a very weird sense of humor, just the way you said toilet, like it was a selling point, which again, it is in this case… Yeah. Anyway, I’m stupid. Just ignore me. Thank you.”

  Chapter 2

  Jameson

  Jolie tells me to ignore her, as if that’s possible. I live in a remote town of some hundred people, of which the majority are men. So yeah, a stunning woman with the bright aqua eyes in my midst… she’s not easy to ignore.

  I thought I was used to this life, but then finding Jolie in the woods, bare ass, with that little heart-shaped birthmark, in the air… it’s like some sick karmic joke, reminding me of everything I’ll never have here.

  I’m pretty sure she caught me this morning. One minute she was snoring, loudly, on my couch… so I thought I had time… but nope. The next minute, she’s dragging herself across my floor, past my door. How could she not see?

  The best thing I can do now is get the hell out of my cabin for the day. Fishing. That’s what I’ll do today. I’m overdue anyway.

  Since the tide is just starting to draw out, it’s the perfect chance. I’ll have about eight hours before it comes back in. Won’t be able to get near the dock again until then.

  First things first, morning meeting in the community greenhouse. Everyone is already here this morning. It’s our favorite meeting spot, since it’s the warmest and biggest community place we’ve got.

  Miles and Nina are still in the process of introducing everyone to the camera crew. Nina was my childhood crush, a few years older than me, kind and beautiful, and the only other person around my age. Now, she’s one of a handful of women in our little town, and married to a guy that moved up here ten or so years ago, named Miles.

  I thought they were crazy when they applied to be a part of a new TV series, but it means an extra twenty thousand for our town for seventeen days of being filmed for a pilot episode. We need it too. Tucker and JP’s place needs plumbing, they can’t keep hauling water each day from the community well.

  Then there’s West’s cabin… he needs a new woodburning stove. That thing’s a fire hazard and when it craps out, he has to hoof it to one of our places. There are plenty of snowed-in days where we can’t get to each other’s front door, so that’s not going to work this winter. Speaking of being buried by snow, we need a new ATV with a plow, ours took the piss last winter. So, yeah, we need the money.

  This town isn’t like most. Most people who come here like it rough. Maybe that’s why it appealed so much to my squadron. The majority of the few dozen residents have been up here for decades. They welcomed my military boys though. Although after eight years in deployment together, we were brothers in every sense of the word. It’s been four years since we all got out though, and three years since they all came up here for good. My boys needed to escape from a world they no longer belonged in. So, here we all are.

  Anyway, if this pilot goes well, there’s talk it could get picked up for a full round of filming which means more money, so we’re all eager to make it work.

  “Just let Henry or West know if you need anything,” Nina concludes.

  West has his usual scowl on his face, arms folded across his chest. I guess he’s the exception to team let’s-make-it-work. He doesn’t want anyone here filming. Thinks it’s blasphemy.

  Henry on the other hand has a long face. I swear that man is more determined than me to not let the past go. But he has better reason than me, because he lost his wife a few years ago.

  JP has a goofy-ass grin as he practically eye fucks the all-female film crew. Not sure they thought this plan out. Might as well be walking through a prison in a bikini. JP steps wide, adjusting his black tactical pants at the crotch. I give him a warning glance. He shoots back a shrug.

  As the meeting wraps up, I step outside and bump into Tucker. Where J
P goes, Tucker is sure to follow. They’ve never dropped the battle-buddy promise all these years. It’s a shocker to see them apart this morning, come to think of it.

  “Did you see the crew?” JP makes a show of licking his lips and rubbing his hands together.

  “Careful, or an albatross might mistake your tongue for a worm,” I warn him, and he pulls his tongue away, looking around. JP has a major fear of birds, which is a lot of fun for the rest of us.

  “Haven’t seen fertile women in as long ass time,” Tucker defends, pushing up to his tiptoes to look around us.

  “Fertile women?” I repeat, amusement in my tone. I’m sure they wouldn’t appreciate that label, so of course, Jolie is hopping around the corner, using my walking cane as a makeshift crutch.

  Shit. I close my eyes, certain she’s heard me, based off the look on her face.

  “Hello, gentlemen,” she says with an air of properness that is out of place here.