Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 87275 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87275 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
The sky lights up with flashes of lightning that seems to last forever.
“That rain is so freaking cold.” She trembles. “What if we can’t get in? We’re going to die out here in the wilderness, all alone, and hungry?”
I try my best not to laugh, but a small snort escapes before I can stop it. I get another dirty look in return.
“They usually leave these places unlocked in case of emergencies,” I say. “I promise you that you won’t die.”
“Is this an emergency?”
“Did you or did you not just express a fear of dying in the wilderness?” I ask, teasing her.
“I mean, that might’ve been a tad dramatic.”
I look down at her and grin. “Do you want to try to make it back to the car?”
“No.”
“Then it’s an emergency.”
A tree snaps behind us as a flash of lightning brightens the sky. The sound of the wood hitting the ground roars through the forest.
I open the screen door, which creaks as it swings free, then I try the handle on the innermost entrance. Thankfully, it, too, opens with ease.
“After you,” I say, motioning for her to enter.
“If we get arrested for this, I’m blaming you.”
I smile. “I’d expect nothing less.”
She goes in first, and I follow.
Chapter Twenty
Georgia
Rains patters against the roof. As soon as Ripley closes the door, the sound intensifies. It’s harder. Denser. It’s hail.
He flips on the lights.
“Right on time,” Ripley says, knocking water droplets off his hair.
I roll my eyes. “You say that like you planned it.”
“I accept your gratitude for me finding you a warm, dry, safe place to stay during a thunderstorm. You’re so welcome.”
“And I accept your apology for not listening to me when I predicted this exact situation.”
He side-eyes me, heading toward the table. “So you get credit for the cabin?”
“Okay, fine. This situation minus the cabin. But the fact not to be overlooked here is that we wouldn’t have needed the cabin had we not decided to hike a mountain on a day it was clearly going to storm.”
He grumbles something I can’t hear—lucky for him.
The cabin is small, but clean, with a gray sofa beneath a window. A wooden table sits along a wall. There’s a large fireplace made of stone in the center of the structure, and a kitchen with the basics—a simple, stainless sink, dorm-sized refrigerator, and a cooktop—is tucked behind it. It’s slightly musty, but not bad.
I cross my arms over my chest, shivering. “This place is kind of cute.”
“It’s better than getting pelted with ice out there.”
“True.”
I peek in two rooms on the far side of the cabin. One is a bedroom big enough for a bed and a single nightstand. The other is a bathroom with the tiniest shower I’ve ever seen, toilet, and sink.
Ripley slings his backpack onto the table.
“We just wait it out in here?” I ask. “I didn’t even bring a book.”
He pulls his phone out and holds it high into the air. “There’s a tornado warning for this area right now. We’re supposed to take cover, so, yeah, we wait it out here.”
The wind picks up, howling through the trees, and the windows rattle. When a tree falls just outside the cabin, the force of the crash makes me jump.
Ripley comes around the corner from the bathroom with two towels, handing me one.
“Here,” he says. “Get dried off.”
I force a smile at him. “Thanks.”
I start with my hair. Ripley tosses his towel over a chair and picks his phone back up again. He walks to the window, staring at the screen.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“I have spotty reception, but I’m trying to get a text to Tate to go through in case he can swing by my house and pick up Waffles.”
My chill is pushed away by the warmth that floods my veins.
I’ve been with men—with people—in similar situations before. They worry their car will be destroyed in a storm. That no one will know where they are. They panic about how to get to safety, or how they’ll pay for damages, or that they’ll miss a meeting.
Ripley is worried about his puppy. I cannot deal with this information.
“There,” he says, pausing a few moments before putting the phone back on the table. “Tate’s going to go get him.”
I stare at him, confused.
“What?” He lifts his brows, and he picks up his towel.
“If we were recording right now, I’d tell you that I think it’s freaking adorable how much you love your dog. It’s really endearing—and unexpected.” I shrug. “But since we’re not filming, and I don’t have to pretend to be nice, I’ll say that it’s weird seeing you think of someone outside yourself.”
He fights a grin. “Yeah, well, you need to be more worried about the fact that you have a soaked, white T-shirt on than how much I love my dog.”
My attention drops to my chest. Sure enough, I’m giving him a show. Again.