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He stood and loomed over me so our chests were almost flush. I glared right back, my chin up and my jaw set. He was not giving up on this. We were going to figure it out, and we were going to nationals.
He reached down, his hand brushing against my neck, and my breath hitched. Then he pulled a pine needle from my ponytail and held it between us. “You’re a mess,” he said, his soft tone in direct opposition to the way his chest was heaving.
“Back to work,” I said, desperate to end whatever this was. Focus and data and planning. That was what I should be thinking about.Notmy shirtless husband standing much too close to me.
He slung me onto his back and turned back toward the hill he’d barreled down. This time, he moved more slowly, more deliberately, and I worked to calm my breathing while I focused on the feel of his body.
“I’m going to turn left and work my way through a trail or two,” He explained as we headed up toward Henri and Alice’s cabin.
My chest got tight, and my head swam a little, and not just because I was hanging upside down. This was way more challenging than I had anticipated when formulating my training plan. And I was starting to feel self-conscious.
I had a healthy relationship with my body. From childhood, I’d known I’d have to use my brains to get by in life, so I didn’t stress about the way I looked. In high school, I wasn’t obsessing about my hair or my nails or whether my thighs touched. They had always touched, and that was fine with me.
I was naturally petite, like my mom and my grandma before me. Sure, I guess my thighs could be smaller, but time spent worrying about the circumference of my thighs was time spent not studying.
And so I’d tossed my concerns over my looks to the side, leaving them for future Hazel to worry about. Someday, future Hazel would be gainfully employed, and she’d get facials and highlights and go to Pilates class with friends. Future Hazel would prioritize self-care. But present-day Hazel had way too much going on.
But right now, with all my blood rushing to my head and feeling every inch of Remy’s muscular torso, I was starting to regret the choice to shelve those concerns. I was thinking about all the workouts and spray tans and manicures I’d missed in my twenty-eight years and wondering whether that was the kind of woman he was attracted to.
I was a data geek. And the data, in the form of his demon spawn ex-fiancée, indicated that he was. All the more reason to stop crushing on my husband. Because all the elaborate, sexy fantasies I’d been concocting in my head would never come to fruition.
I’d never cared much about what guys thought of my body. My entire life had been devoted to being taken seriously and being seen as a smart and powerful woman. And being as short as I was meant I had to work hard for those things. So did my high-pitched voice.
I’d never had much trouble with dating. Maybe because I’d never stressed about whether I was single or in a relationship. I’d had a few boyfriends, nothing serious. And a decent friends-with-benefits deal that lasted through grad school.
But this? There was a deep, primal need inside me for Remy to appreciate my body. For him to want me.
I knew he valued my brain. He’d made that clear since we were kids and especially since we’d gotten married. Every time I looked at the bookcases he’d built, I smiled. He supported my work and encouraged me to get healthy so I could finish my doctorate.
But, despite my better judgment, I wanted him to lust for me the way I lusted for him. To feel the frustration I felt. Because he made me feel valued and smart and celebrated, but he also challenged me. It was that deeper level of connection that made me want more from him. Need more from him.
And when I kissed him last weekend, I had foolishly thought that it could be the start of something. He had seemed so surprised and delighted when it happened. But by the time we’d left the tournament, he’d cooled.
The uncertainty and frustration were killing me, and that was dangerous. Especially because I was currently half-naked and upside down, clinging to him like a baby sloth.
“You okay?” He dropped low and put me back on my feet.
He was panting and soaked with sweat.
All the blood rush from my head, making me wobble. I couldn’t focus on a single point in front of me, and I suddenly felt cool and clammy.
“Hazel,” Remy said, holding my shoulders.
“Can I sit?” I asked, rubbing my temples. “I think I was upside down for too long.”
He led me to a grassy spot under a large tree where I sank to the ground and leaned against the trunk.
“Sorry. Head rush.”
He dropped to the grass next to me, his shoulder brushing mine, and looked out at the forest.
“Thank you,” he said softly.
I hummed and put my head on his sweaty shoulder.
“You’re a pretty kick-ass wife.”
“You’re a pretty kick-ass husband.”
