Ryder Stellan Bergman, I type.
Her phone dings and she taps the message. Her face brightens with a grin before she glances up at me. “Could you be any more Scandinavian, Lumberjack?”
I shrug, typing, My mom is Swedish. First-generation.
She frowns. “But your last name sounds Swedish, too. Your dad isn’t?”
A grin slips out because I know Willa will appreciate this. My dad took my mom’s last name. Well, legally, it’s hyphenated to his family name since that was tied to his degree, but he goes by Bergman. His was an awful mouthful, and he liked hers better. She said it was the least he could do, for all the kids he wanted her to pop out.
Willa snorts. “That’s badass.”
Quiet falls, but for the roar of the water creating a curtain between us and the outside world. Sutter’s a good name. I think you could find a guy who’d take it, I write.
She reads it and taps her phone, thinking. Maybe. I won’t have all those kids to justify it, though, at least for a while, maybe ever.
My question is out of my fingers into her phone before I can help it. Why?
She lifts her head so I can read her lips. “Can’t play pro with a baby bump.”
I nod. Of course. Willa’s going to have a professional athlete’s life. She’s going to travel the world for the National Team. She’ll make the Olympic Team next time they compete. Her life is going to be so different from mine.
I’ll admit it, I was fucking livid with Aiden after he pulled this couple’s therapy shit. I know my brother-in-law. I know exactly what he’s doing, and I’ve resented him this entire semester for pushing us together, over and over. I drive Willa nuts with my blunt delivery, my pragmatic outlook, my dry, needling teases. And Willa’s a temperamental pain in my ass. She makes fun of my flannel shirts, she provokes me almost constantly. She ribs me for my gruffness, then jabs me the moment I show her my soft side.
Despite all that, she’s important to me, and I’ve come to realize she needs a kind of gentle handling she won’t admit. Underneath that tough exterior and irascible temper of hers is someone just trying to protect herself from getting hurt. That clarity first came to me when I picked her up from the club. The way she looked at me so trustingly, how she leaned into me like I was somebody she could count on, someone strong enough to take her being human and a little needy. It was a rare window into her vulnerability. Seeing it felt like a gift.
But she was also shit-faced and exhausted, and she woke up the next morning just as feisty and playfully combative as always, teasing her body against mine, coaxing whatever reaction she could, just to get a rise out of me. And, so help me, for just a minute, I took the bait.
The moment she left, then texted me from her apartment, we were right back to what we always were. Enemies who can tolerate each other, friends who drive each other nuts. One of those. Both of them.
Who fucking knows. God, I have a headache.
The point is, her behavior that night and the next morning was an anomaly, not the norm. Reading any more into that night is delusional, and this reminder, this sobering reminder that a world-class athlete, the next great female soccer star of at least the U.S., if not the world, does not have room in her world for someone like me, is exactly what I needed. Because even if Willa Sutter did feel anything for me besides contemptuous amusement, I’m the least compatible partner for someone like her. I’m a guy who wants to live a quiet life in the woods, who wants to take walks among the trees and build campfires, and maybe teach some deaf kids and adults that they can be independent and active and safe in nature.
“Bergman.”
At least I think that’s what she says. My head snaps up. What? I mouth.
“I lost you,” she says.
Shaking my head, I sit straighter. Sorry. Your turn. Full name. Cough it up, Sunshine.
My phone buzzes in my hands. Willa Rose Sutter. Don’t you dare make some crack about a cutesy middle name for a hellion like me. It’s my grandma’s name and I’ll throat punch you.
I stare down at those words, saying them inside my head. Willa. Rose. Sutter.
That’s beautiful, I type.
Willa startles. Seems I caught her off guard by complimenting her. Am I that terrible to her? I say nice things about her, don’t I?
No, you ass, you don’t. Because that’s dangerous territory. We don’t go there.
True, subconscious. Very, very true.
Willa finally breaks away from staring at me in bewilderment and lowers her eyes to her phone. Favorite food.
Spinach, I type.
She scrunches her nose. “You would, Mountain Man.”
I roll my eyes. Healthier than yours. Double-stack cheeseburger and a root beer float. You and Rooney get it after two-a-days and rough games. You’re secretly worried Rooney’s going to confess your breach in strict diet to Coach because she has a guilt complex that typically prevents her from being able to lie at all.
Willa’s jaw drops, her eyes narrowing as they flick up and meet mine. “Have you been following me, Bergman?”
A slow grin pulls at my mouth. No, I type. But you talk, Willa, and I listen. I know you, better than you think.
Her face falls as she types. Then why do I know almost nothing about you? My body tenses as I read her words. Why don’t I know you’re a badass soccer player? Why do you know my favorite food and post-game ritual, and I don’t even know how you spend your weekends, or what you do for fun? How’s that fair?
I narrow my eyes at her, then type, Fair?
She throws up her hands, then grabs her phone and types furiously. Yes, fair! Why do I run my mouth around you, why do I tell you anything about my life, just for you to use it against me, to throw it in my face and tease me left and right? Then there’s you. What do I have to work with? A closed-off, cold, contained Abominable Snowman.
Now back up, I type. I tell you things. You met my friends, my roommates, I brought you to my house—I never do that. You know my schedule. You know I hate peanut butter cups.
She lobs a small pebble at me, so I look up. “Because that’s weird to hate peanut butter cups. Because you deserve shame for hating peanut butter cups. And I only came to your house and met Tucker and Becks because we had to do this project together.”
Because that’s the only thing that ever brought us together, Willa! Your world is not my world. I hit send and watch her face shift as she reads.
Suddenly, Willa looks up at me, her eyes tight. Her stare is unblinking and I can’t hold it. Stupidly, indulgently, my eyes roam her body. Water rushes around us, the mist plastering her scant clothes closer to her body, tightening the curls in her hair. God, she’s perfect. Muscular and fit, and still the faint curves of a woman. I felt those strong thighs in my grip, her high breasts smashed to my back.
I shut my eyes, trying to scrub the image from my brain, to erase the desire staining my system.
I sense movement and my eyes jerk open. Willa’s gaze glows as she leans onto all fours, then crawls my way. My heart pounds in my ears, heat floods my stomach and lower. I’m keyed up and cornered and I have no idea what Willa’s about to do.
She straddles my legs and I involuntarily hold my breath. Reaching past me, she yanks the stem off a plant, then sits back on her haunches, right on my thighs. My nails claw ineffectually into the slate beneath my palms. My pulse thunders, watching her rip off a leaf and set it to my lips.