“There’s an inlet farther down with a nice clearing to set up a pretend camp,” he added. “And it usually has decent phone reception.”
Phone reception was all the convincing she needed.
“You’re the expert,” she said. And realized she meant it. For someone who’d practically raised herself—if one didn’t count the revolving door of au pairs and boarding school staff—it was a foreign feeling for Charlotte to willingly give over control of her environment to another person. Yet, so far, she’d felt reasonably safe in Alex Russell’s capable hands. Well, not in his hands, literally, but more than a few times, she’d looked at his strong, tanned fingers maneuvering the oar and wondered how many women on whitewater rafting vacations had volunteered to ride next to him.
“Just let me make sure I haven’t forgotten anything.” She pulled her laminated list of supplies out of the small pack strapped around her waist and ran her finger down each item.
“I thought we went over that thing several times already, back when we loaded the raft.” They had, and he’d been extremely patient the first time she’d reviewed it. Now, though, she was getting the feeling he didn’t appreciate her ability to always be prepared. Probably because he was rolling his head back the way Audrey did whenever Charlotte told the five-year-old to pick up her My Little Ponies before she could have dessert.
“We did, but I don’t like to leave anything to chance.”
“Well, it’s not like we could simply row ourselves to the nearest department store in the event you forgot something. Besides, you haven’t taken anything out yet, so it should all still be there, right?” He rubbed his hand against the back of his neck, the gesture similar to his grandfather’s earlier, and Charlotte fought the impulse to reach up and straighten his collar.
“Hopefully.” She smiled, but didn’t apologize for her organizational skills. It only took a moment before she nodded and walked quickly toward the raft, getting her expensive new boots soaking wet in the process, since the filled raft was too heavy to pull entirely onto shore and had stayed shin-deep in the water. She had one leg over the side, but her sore arms and bulky life vest made it somewhat difficult to heave herself back in. She froze the second she felt his hands on her hips and suddenly her mistake in footwear wasn’t the only thing she felt foolish about.
“Here you go,” he said, lifting her up as if she was as light as one of her daughter’s plastic toy ponies. Because she wasn’t expecting the help—or her body’s response to his touch—her knee jerked, causing her leg to slip on the outer edge of the bow. Without dropping her, Alex shifted his hands so they were cupping her rear end and gave her a final boost inside.
When she finally scrambled onto her seat, Charlotte didn’t know what was warmer, the intimate places he’d touched her or her blushing cheeks. After Mitchell’s betrayal, she’d vowed to never fall so easily for a man again. But there was something about the fresh air and the natural isolation of the land around them that must be drawing her to the reserved river guide. The self-discovery book she’d read about camping suggested that peoples’ hormones were heightened and more animalistic when they were out in nature. Or maybe it was his rugged attractiveness combined with his quiet confidence that filled Charlotte’s mind with the kind of lustful thoughts she shouldn’t be having.
He secured the fishing line to the inside of the raft and Charlotte tamped down the shudder that threatened to erupt every time she caught sight of the lifeless, glassy fish eyes of his catch. Even though she was familiar with prepping all kinds of food, she normally didn’t have to sit right next to something that had been alive just a few minutes before. To take her mind off the dead trout, the man’s use of the word dicey, and the way his hands had perfectly formed around her curves, she decided she’d ask some background questions for her article as he took the inflated bench behind her and they paddled toward the middle of the river.
“Have you had a lot of women, Mr. Russell?” Charlotte’s oar paused midstroke and she sucked in her breath, wishing she could pull the words back in with it. “I mean, are you used to women being with you?”
Oh, no. That hadn’t sounded any better. Thankfully, she wasn’t facing him and he couldn’t see the embarrassment heating up her face.
“In what sense?” Captain Hot Hands back there probably had plenty of urban females flocking to the wilderness looking for a little more adventure than what was offered in the brochure.
“You know what? That came out wrong. I was trying to ask about your clientele. I’m definitely better at answering interview questions than asking them.”
“But you’re a reporter, right?”
“Not really. I’m more of a lifestyle expert.”
“What the hell is a lifestyle expert?”
“I’m not exactly sure, to be honest with you. I started out posting some recipes in my sorority’s alumni newsletter—”
“Sorority?”
“Yes,” she said, trying not to sound too defensive. Charlotte wasn’t oblivious to people’s skepticism and mocking tones when it came to things like Greek life or beauty pageants. But she also wouldn’t apologize for her past or for the connections she’d made in that world, a world that had welcomed a very lonely girl when everyone else had shut her out.
“So,” she continued, “I started getting follow-up questions and comments asking about ingredients, which turned into questions about household tips, which morphed into interior decorating. Pretty soon, I had my own blog about home entertainment and Fine Tastes contacted me about writing for them. But most of what I do is really just creating recipes and coming up with ideas for room décor and throwing parties. That sort of thing.”
“So you’re more about presentation than about substance?”
She jerked back her head and frowned at him. “That’s probably the judgmental way of looking at it.”
“Sorry,” he said, his smirk back. “Nobody’s ever called me judgmental before.”
Charlotte didn’t know if she necessarily believed that. She’d seen the skepticism in his eyes—before he’d quickly covered them up with his sunglasses—when they’d been talking about her sixth grade canoeing skills back at the put-in location. She’d also noticed the way he’d frowned at the brand new water-resistant performance pants she’d bought especially for this trip before suggesting that they reschedule. Sure, the man had been very patient with her so far today when instructing her how to paddle and how to angle her body when they’d hit their first set of rapids. But he also reeked of no-nonsense skill and leadership.
Well, technically, he reeked of aloe-scented sunscreen and cool water and something much more manly and musky and way too arousing. She purposely looked at the dead trout as a way to refocus her attention.
“Has anyone ever called you evasive?” she couldn’t help the frustrated tone. “It takes forever to get an answer out of you.”
“I’m sorry. Can you repeat the original question?” She didn’t have to turn toward him to hear the grin underlying his words. He was teasing her about her awkward query and she sort of deserved it.
“Do you get many female customers?” Okay, so that wasn’t what she’d really wanted to know, but it was the only way she could save face and not sound like she’d been speculating
