Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 147415 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 737(@200wpm)___ 590(@250wpm)___ 491(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147415 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 737(@200wpm)___ 590(@250wpm)___ 491(@300wpm)
God help me, I’m a prisoner to my own gaze, and I can’t look away.
She sends me a long glance, and maybe it’s just my imagination, but I think her gaze lingers on my shoulders before she turns away.
“What? Is there a bug on my face or something?” she asks innocently.
No, woman. Your tits are just draining my entire life force faster than a blanket made of mosquitos.
“A dragonfly, I think. It’s gone now,” I lie. “You want to lend me a hand getting this fire going? The sooner it’s up, the faster we won’t freeze our asses off.”
We work together in silence.
I continue digging while she roams our campsite, collecting small pieces of driftwood and flat stones to help feed the fire and keep it contained.
“Since you did lunch, dinner’s on me.” I fish around in my bag until I pull out a big blue can of rations. “You good with Chicken a la King or beef chili?”
Her mouth drops. “Freeze dried rations? You?”
I shrug. “It’s not fancy, but it does the job. Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a little freeze dried chicken with a fifty-year shelf life.”
I almost laugh as she swallows thickly.
“It’s... it’s fine, Shepherd. You were pretty adventurous with the flapjack.”
“Yeah, now it’s your turn. It’ll reward your bravery, I promise. This stuff sticks to the ribs all night. And if it’s too rough on your belly, I’ve got a box of Pepto.” I pull out the pink box and chuck it at her.
She instantly throws it back like it’s on fire.
“Dude, no. I can handle my reconstituted noodles just fine, thank you.”
That wins her a bitter smile.
Nice knowing she isn’t picky about her diet in the field.
You never know when she’s young and fresh-faced and a billionaire’s daughter—no Mediterranean avocado salads when you’re on the go with no town in sight—though I’m guessing she wondered the same about me.
After I get some water boiling to reheat the food, she unwraps her sleeping bag. I notice she sets it about as far away from me as she can.
Good.
I’m glad I’m not the only one who sees the need for space after—well, fucking everything.
So why doesn’t it make me happier?
I follow her lead, setting my sleeping bag at the opposite end of the fire, though still close enough to get heat. It’s already clouding up and it’ll be cold tonight for sure.
Fuck, I hate this tension.
Even the wind feels like it’s whistling just to highlight the awkward silence between us.
We haven’t even discussed our plans for tomorrow, I realize.
Surveillance, yeah.
I know how to operate the prototype drone stowed in my bag, but I’m clueless about the finer points of stalking sea otters.
The last light fades behind the trees by the time the food turns into something resembling an edible meal.
Destiny stops, hands on her hips, and stares at the last shred of vermillion and red coming through the trees. The thin cloud layer above highlights the colors.
It’s one of the more spectacular sunset finishes I’ve seen in a long time.
She fumbles for her phone, taking a picture of the sunset, searching for the perfect selfie angle.
I watch her without meaning to as I stir the food and dish up some pears and blueberries I brought along for more texture and fiber.
Why can’t I quit staring?
She takes maybe five pictures, flicks through them, changes the angle, her hair, the light on her face, and then takes another set.
She’s clearly focused on what she’s doing.
There’s something weirdly compelling about it when I realize she’s not just showing off for Instagram Likes. The image is all about building her brand.
I check the food to distract myself, though.
So what if she’s standing there, the dying light gilding her in rose gold?
Who cares if it’s the most picture-perfect pose I’ve ever seen?
Not my concern.
Once she’s done a few minutes of quick editing, or maybe posted the pics already, she heads back to where I’m cooking.
“Right on time. Dig in.”
I ladle out our dinner and pass her a bowl to go with the fruit.
She inhales it cautiously, but I can hear her stomach rumbling.
I think we’re both starved enough to eat a half-cooked porcupine right now. Chicken a la King might as well be food fit for an emperor.
I throw together my own bowl and then sit on the other side of the large log we’re using for a makeshift bench.
The more room between us, the better.
Even if this feels like a chasm.
In the fire’s light, her loose hair is art. Golden and slightly tangled from the salt water, looking so goddamn beautiful and tempting I want to rake my fingers through it.
“Brief me on tomorrow,” I say, partly to distract myself and partly because this silence can’t go on forever.
Plus, I need to know what we’re doing. The otter tracking is all her, and I expect she’ll have a few areas picked to comb from the air.