Page 51 of Wrecked

With the back door still open, he unbuttons his jeans and is about to start on the zipper.

“What are you doing?” I ask with a tiny shriek.

His hands pause as he looks back at me. “Changing.”

“Oh, so you get fresh clothes, but I get to stay in filth?”

With a shrug, he replies, “They’re already in my truck.” He leans in the backseat and rummages through a bag. “Here.” He tosses me a T-shirt.

I catch the shirt and am instantly hit with the intoxicating scent of Downy, spice, and all-American male.

“Are you sniffing my shirt?”

“It stinks. Did you even wash this thing?”

“I thought I did. Give it to me.”

“No, it’s fine.” I wave him off. “Privacy, please.”

Adam closes the door, and I take my tank top off. He’s on the driver’s side, by the back wheel. Out the side-view mirror, I can see him changing. Lean arms cross his front and lift his T-shirt over his head. His bare chest is laced with corded muscles and showcases the most magnificent shoulders I’ve ever seen. He looks like he can carry the weight of the world on his back and not stumble an inch. He’s barrel-chested but not like an ox. He’s statuesque and beautiful.

When he bends down to take off his jeans, I shimmy over the console. I use the controls to angle mirror for a better view. As the denim slides down his legs, I’m greeted with the incredible sight of thick, strong thighs clad in black boxer briefs. It’s too dark to make out how well those briefs are hugging him, but I’ll have to use my imagination. And my imagination right now is running wild.

He pulls on a pair of basketball shorts and throws a tank top over his chest. While he’s putting his construction boots back on, I throw his T-shirt over my head and watch it fall down my body like a drape. It’s not sexy or flattering in any way. I’m seriously considering putting my stank tank top back on.

My door opens, and with an outstretched hand, he takes the food from me. I step out and follow him to the back, and then I let him help me up onto the tailgate.

We take our seats, positioning our backs up against the rear window, legs outstretched over the blankets. He rifles through the bag and pulls out his burger and fries, and then he hands me the bag.

The food is on his lap, and a bottle of water is between his thighs as he leans his head against the window, looks up to the sky, lowers his eyes, and sighs.

With his face basking in the moonlight, I take in every impeccable feature—from the day-old scruff that lines his jaw that was once narrow and is now chiseled and refined to his thickened neck that signifies his sensual, deep voice. His almond-shaped eyes are framed with tiny lines on the sides. On anyone else, I’d say they were laugh lines. On him, I know they’re from worry.

His mouth parts, and those plump lips let out a breath, so deep, I can almost feel the weight being lifted off him and released out into the warm night air.

This close, it’s easy to compare the physical size of him to the boy I knew. He was always taller than me, but sitting next to him, I feel almost dwarfed by how he’s filled out.

With each passing week of me watching him lift and move, hammer and screw, it’s been hard pretending not to notice every dip and curve of his body. The muscles in his back alone are like a road map to the heavens.

Normally, if someone was sitting next to me in complete silence, I’d be begging to fill the air with conversation. Aside from being able to stare at him for as long as I’d like, this is also oddly comfortable. My world is filled with noise—boisterous, fun, lively noise that I thrive on. Yet right here, in this moment, I’m at peace.

I lean back and close my eyes. There is a slight breeze, and it tickles my skin.

A humming nearby sounds like a plane’s engine is idling at the end of the runway. The engine rumbles, the sound gathering volume and speed. It’s approaching, faster than I expected. With a loud rumble and a whoosh, it takes off, leaving wind to pass around our ears. My hair lightly flies off my face, and the adrenaline in my body pulses up into my heart, my stomach, and my eyes.

I look up, a smile on my face, an odd sensation passing through me. Maybe it’s because when I open my eyes, it’s not to the sight of a plane or the starlit sky, but rather to the gleaming moonlight reflecting in his stare. He’s looking at me with a rush in those irises as wild as the one in my chest.

He gazes down at my heaving breasts and up to my lips. I swallow, and with it, I suppress every wicked intention I have running through my head.

“Your food’s getting cold,” I say. Why? I have no idea. But it’s what I said, so I dip my hand into the bag and pull out my burger.

Adam grabs some of his fries and pops them into his mouth. When he’s done swallowing, he asks, “If you could get on a plane right now and go anywhere in the world, where would you go?”

I slowly chew and think. “Colorado. Pikes Peak. You’re looking at me like that’s the wrong answer.”

He shakes his head with a smile. “You surprise me. Anywhere in the world, and you choose the Rocky Mountains.”

I shrug. “The song ‘America the Beautiful’ was written on top of that mountain. The view was so stunning that a poem sprang to life. I want to feel that. I want to see that backdrop. That, and I have this A River Runs Through It fantasy in my head.”