Free Look Before You Bake by Cassie Wright Page B

dissipates into mist before hitting the ground far below. I get close to the edge and peer over, and again marvel at the view, but the sheer height makes me pull back till Arthur takes my hand and leads me to the very edge. Holding his hand gives me confidence, and together we gaze out over the woods, an actual eagle wheeling in the air below us.
    Stepping back, I wipe my sleeve across my forehead. Though I can't smell anything, I know I have to stink like two days' worth of hiking. Arthur spends about five minutes building up the fire, then stands, reaches over his head and pulls his shirt off. I nearly slip and fall over the cliff. Watching the muscles of his chest, arms, and core ripple as he slides his shirt off is almost more than I can handle. Would it be weird to ask him to do that again while I record it? And then dive into my tent to play it over and over again in slow motion?
    He drops his shirt on his pack and stretches. I fight back a groan, eyes riveted by his sculpted body. How can such a massive man be so perfectly proportioned? There's a gorgeous symmetry to him that mesmerizes me, and though he's massive, his chest covered in a delicious furze of hair, he's not fat, not even around the waist.
    He interlaces his fingers and reaches for the sky, and then with a grunt relaxes. "I'm going into the water," he says. "It's a little ritual I have here."
    "Oh," I say, nodding and trying to look casual. "Little rituals are great. I'm all in favor. I'll just, um, sit here and –" And watch , I almost say, but I manage to cough and change tracks at the last moment. "And start cooking."
    "You sure?" He moves his hands to his belt buckle, and my mouth goes dry as my throat squeezes shut. I can't respond, so I just nod frantically and gesture that he should continue. He shrugs and unbuckles his wide leather belt, then drops his jeans so that they puddle around his ankles. I'm alternating between raging hot flashes and bouts of panic. A smoother operator than I would be helping him get undressed or something, or putting on her own strip show. I try to think of my favorite romance heroines, the brave, bold, sassy women I always wish I could channel, but none come to mind. I just sit down hurriedly on a rock and grab my pack, yanking it open.
    Don't look at Arthur's huge package, visible even under his boxers. Don't drink in his muscled thighs, his broad calves. Don't think about running your nails lightly over his body, scratching him and feeling his muscles, his hot skin beneath yours.
    There's a splash, and I look over to see Arthur's broad back sinking into the pool, till only his head remains above water. He pushes away from the edge and into the center, where he turns with a happy sigh to look back at me. "It's freaking delicious."
    "Oh, good!" I try to sound casual again, and fail abysmally.
    "You know, the water would be good for your feet." He doesn't sound like he's trying to seduce me, but still my heart races even faster. "It would help prevent any swelling."
    I've read literally hundreds of romance novels, and none of them feature pick-up lines that mention swelling feet. But something about his eyes, the knowing smile on his oh-so-kissable lips, and the fact that my feet are in fact throbbing helps finally push me over the edge. Why not? I can at least dip my toe in the water. I can get a little closer. What am I, a nun? What more invitation do I need to have a little fun than the hunkiest man on the planet – or at least Franklin County – inviting me to dip my feet in the pool he's enjoying?
    So I pull off my boots and socks, and walk tentatively over to the pool's edge. "It's slippery," I say. Slippery is an understatement. It's mossy, the rocks emerald and soft. I tread carefully, and Arthur swims a little closer.
    "Careful," he says. I almost slip once, freezing in place, arms extended out to my sides, and then smile and take another step and my foot slides right out from under me.
    I scream and fall into