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Carter Steel looks too damngood in a suit. With his shoulder length brown hair pulled back into a bun, his jaw peppered with stubble, and the appropriate inch of white cuff showing under his suit jacket, he looks more refined than usual. Normally, he’s full-on mountain man: hair wild around his face, beard long enough to stroke, and dressed in the type of clothes that look like they could take a beating.
He looks sinfully good tonight, though I’ll never admit that. To anyone.
And I don’t know how I’m going to make it through the next three days with him. Damn Jamie and Cat for planning a combined bachelor and bachelorette party. Cat told me that she just had to have Jamie at her bachelorette party, since he’s her best friend. And he said the same thing.
I love Cat because she’s my friend, but I can’t imagine thinking that about anyone, especially not the man I’m currently staring at.
I tip my drink back, swallowing it all in one gulp, and force myself to turn my gaze away from Carter. We’re having drinks before dinner at the luxury lodge we’re staying in, just down the road from Harborview. Cat and Jamie wanted to make sure it was easy for everyone to attend, and since our friends mostly live in Maine or in the Northeast, staying close to home seemed like a good idea. Tomorrow we’re going to visit one of the smaller islands nearby for some hiking. I was thrilled that we were staying local at first—I don’t exactly have the cash to shell out for a trip to Vegas.
But if we were in Vegas, at least Carter might have abstained from coming. He’s got some pretty intense commitments at the moment with his PhD and teaching. At least that’s what Cat told me. Apart from exchanging hellos, I’ve successfully avoided talking to him for the whole trip.
But that’s apparently going to end right about now. Because he’s heading over to the corner where I’m standing, a determined glint in his eye.
If there were twenty of us here, I would be able to hide. But there’s only ten of us: Hunter, Carter, Jamie, Cat, myself, Jamie’s friend Drew from Duke (and his girlfriend he insisted had to come. God, can couples spend one day apart? ), and a few ladies Cat knows from her book club.
“Hi Ange,” Carter says, sidling up next to me, his hands grasping two drinks.
“Don’tcall me that,” I say, my hackles rising almost immediately. He knows damn well I hate that nickname coming from his lips. It’s for friends only.
God Ange, don’t stop. You’re killing me.
I didn’t always hate it though, I guess. I push the memory from my mind and focus on the man before me.
“Sorry, force of habit,” he says smoothly.
If I didn’t know Carter as well as I do, I’d almost think he was trying to be mean. To remind me of our unsavory history. Carter Steel is many things—smart-mouthed, smart-assed, just plain smart—but mean is not one of them.
“Sure,” I say, grabbing a drink out of his hand.
“Who said that was for you?” he says.
“If you want to stand near me, you’ve gotta pay up,” I say, taking a long sip. It’s a Paloma, my favorite. Damn him for knowing that.
“I was hoping I’d get to actually talk to you,” he quips.
“Nope. Standing close to me is as good as you’re getting.” I don’t know why I even say it. I should just down the drink and make a hasty exit.
Except there is nowhere to fucking go. We’re trapped in this lodge, in the middle of the woods, with nothing but trees and campsites surrounding us.
“Come now Angela, don’t be like that. We’ve got three more days to spend together.”
He looks so smug I want to punch him. Instead I just roll my eyes.
“Lucky me.”
“I’m excellent company.”
“Says who?” I feel like I’m ten-years-old, arguing with him like this, but I can’t help myself. It’s also the only way to keep myself safe around him.
“Jamie and Hunter. And my doctoral supervisor. She loves me,” he says.
I’m sure she fucking does. What aging academic wouldn’t want a student who looked like him? He takes a sip of his drink—a Manhattan, because even if Carter Steel is a mountain man, he still knows how to enjoy refined things—and I watch him swallow, his throat bobbing. I want to wrap my hands around it and squeeze until he stops annoying me.
“How’s that going?” I ask, desperate to steer the conversation into safe waters. There’s nothing sexy or alluring about his PhD research.
“Good. I guess. I love it but I also hate it,” he says. “Sometimes I look at my dissertation and want to die. Or throw up.” He blushes. “I’m rambling, sorry.”
