It’s dawn.
Which means I must have slept for almost twenty-four hours…
Holy shit.
That certainly explains the sudden urgency to use the bathroom. I scan the small clearing for any sign of Connor to ask him where I’m supposed to do that, but I don’t see him anywhere.
Just mist, trees, and a pile of logs where he apparently intends to build his permanent cabin.
“Shit.”
Please, God, let there be an outhouse up here.
I swear to God, if I have to go to the bathroom in the woods, I’ll find my way down the mountain without him, back to civilization, damn the consequences or how long it would take me. At this point, I would take anything even remotely resembling a toilet.
Anything besides squatting over a damn log.
It was bad enough having to pee in the woods during the hike, knowing Connor was only a few dozen yards away and could probably hear every single thing. Now, I have no idea where that infuriating man is, which means he could walk up on me at any time, in any compromised position.
That’s precisely the kind of embarrassment I’d rather avoid when it comes to my forced stay here with my least favorite McBride.
If I were an outhouse, where would I be?
Honestly, I don’t have a fucking clue. I don’t do this—wilderness, lack of modern conveniences, living in a damn shack. Connor is well aware of my avoidance of all things rustic, too.
It wouldn’t surprise me if his insistence on bringing me up here had more to do with the torture he knew it would inflict on me than for his purported reason—to keep me safe.
Because that isn’t something Connor McBride would do for me.
If it’s about safety, then he did it to protect everyone else on the homestead, and he likely has an ulterior motive of attempting to control me and steer my story any way he can.
He may have said he will answer my questions, but I know it will be like pulling teeth from a rabid dog.
That fun activity will have to wait until later, though, because if I don’t find a bathroom soon, things will get very embarrassing for me.
Hustling around the side of the shack, I scan the treeline behind it and spot an even smaller building only a few hundred yards away that can only be for one purpose…
Thank God.
I rush over there and take care of my business, relieved that someone—whether it was Killian’s grandfather, father, or Connor—had the good sense not to want to forgo this convenience. And I send up a silent prayer that there is actual toilet paper in here and not just a stack of leaves like I was anticipating.
This wilderness stuff just isn’t for me.
If that isn’t motivation to get this story done quickly, nothing is.
All I want to do when I step from the outhouse is get clean. Ditch these filthy clothes that I just slept in for almost an entire day after hiking in them and wash my hands, my body, and mess of hair that was coated in sweat and dirt and everything else gross on the way up here.
That shack doesn’t even have a sink let alone running water…
Where the hell does he get clean?
Something rustles in the trees to my left, and I spin toward it, eyes wide and hands up, even though I don’t have a goddamn weapon or any idea how to protect myself with just my fists if I needed to. After Connor’s warning on the hike up here, my heart leaps in my chest.
If it is a bear, coyote, or a bobcat, I won’t have any way to defend myself…
But something far more dangerous stalks through the trees.
Six-foot-five of heavy muscle, bad attitude, and a dark look that can slice right through you like an obsidian blade.
