“What the hell, Jonah? You promised you’d wait!”

In the time it took me to exchange my clothes for my robe, scrub the taste of six different chilies off my tongue—that Muriel badgered me to taste despite my assertions that I’m not a fan—collect two towels, and head back down to the porch, Jonah stripped out of his clothes, climbed into the hot tub, and made himself at home.

“Did I?” His muscular arms stretch out on either side of him along the frame. His head rests back, showing off the sharp jut of his throat. The steam from the hot water mixing with the cool air creates an ethereal mist around him. “Sorry. You took too long.”

“I was, like, ten minutes.” I set the towels on a small side table and, before leaving my phone there as well, take a stealthy picture of this view—a bare, broad-chested Jonah in the steamy foreground, the sawtooth, snowcapped mountain range in the back.

With a smile of satisfaction—this one will rival the infamous wood-chopping snap, both in sexiness and in the power to irritate him—I move toward the edge of the tub, my hands gripping the lapel of my robe.

Jonah lifts his head to scan me from head to toe, his gaze flashing with mischief. And anticipation.

I’ve undressed for Jonah countless times. He knows every freckle, dimple, and hint of a scar, and yet every time I’m about to, that same eruption of nerves and excitement stirs in the pit of my stomach, like it did the first time. It’s clear why he was so eager to break his promise to me. “Close your eyes, you brat. You don’t deserve a show.”

The wicked laugh that carries from deep within his chest and echoes over the calm, quiet lake sends shivers down my spine. “I probably don’t, but not a chance in hell.”

With a quick scan around the property for privacy, which earns a scoff from Jonah, because “look where we live!”—I turn around and make a point of ever-so-slowly sliding the robe off my shoulders, inch by inch down my biceps, uncovering my shoulder blades, my back, that curve above my tailbone, stalling there as the cool night air skates over my naked skin. Stripping outdoors, out in the open like this, with the still lake and the quiet forest and the looming Denali, the last rays of sun touching its westernmost side at ten thirty p.m., certainly adds a certain edge to the moment.

“Get in here already, Calla.” Jonah’s gruff voice drops an octave.

I let the robe drop to the porch floor next to his pile of clothes and then take a step back to perch on the edge of the tub. I swing my legs over as gracefully as possible and slip into the hot, inviting water. I groan. “This feels so good.”

“I’ll admit …” Jonah begins, reaching for me, pulling me across to fit tidily beneath his outstretched arm, my legs pulled over his lap. He curls his body inward, giving him the perfect angle to trace my collarbone with his lips. “This might have been worth all that money.”

“Wait a minute. Did I hear that right? Did you say that I am the smartest person alive and you are so sorry for ever questioning— Ah!” I squeal as Jonah playfully nips at my skin, then licks the spot with his tongue. “Look at them all.” I point at the screen and the horde of sizeable, bloodsucking insects perched on the outside, foiled in their attempts to find a way in. There isn’t one. The carpenter was meticulous with his work. Not one crack remains, affording us refuge from their nuisance.

“I know. I’m glad I insisted on you hiring that guy to do the screens.”

“Hmm … Yes, that’s exactly how I remember it going.”

He pulls my body up to perch on the inside of his bent leg. My breasts float just above the waterline. “Yeah, definitely a fucking brilliant idea, getting this hot tub.” Jonah’s beard tickles my skin as his mouth clamps over a pebbled nipple. Beneath the water, his hand brazenly slides up the inside of my thigh.

There’s no question what Jonah’s intentions are, and normally I’m more than willing to pander to his physical needs—and my own—but tonight, we need to have an actual conversation first so my focus won’t be divided.

I clamp my hand over his, stalling it. “You seemed to have a good time at the Ale House.”

As did I, surprisingly. While Jonah was talking to Jack Thomas, Muriel made a point of introducing me to every person who came through the chili line, who in turn asked me about The Yeti, prominently displayed on my chest. I made sure to let them all know how dependable and skilled Jonah is, in case they’re ever in need of a pilot. Several people seemed keenly interested.

He groans, finally getting the hint. We shift again, and I shimmy off his leg to immerse myself in the hot water. Jonah leans back against the side of the tub, the hand that was between my thighs settling to a more neutral spot on my knee. “Is this about that woman? Because I didn’t encourage that.”

“No. I don’t care about Jessie Winslow.” Though she did nearly end up with Crock-Pot Number Four chili over her head. I wasn’t surprised when she took one look at Jonah and eagerly pulled up a chair to their table, touching him at every opportunity. According to Muriel, who must’ve seen the way my fist curled around the ladle when Jessie pawed Jonah’s thigh, the woman has “issues with the drink.”

Luckily for her—and for Jonah—he made a point of excusing himself from the table and coming over to sample the food.

And I made a point of sampling his mouth for her to see.

“What’d Roy say to you?”

“That he knows he’s an SOB and thanks for saving his dog.”

“No shit.” Jonah’s eyebrows pop with astonishment. “What’d he want with Muriel?”

“I don’t know.” Roy sat at the bar, staring at his bottle and not speaking to anyone, until Muriel headed over to question him. It was a short conversation and seemed civilized, and then he collected his hat and ducked out of the Ale House without so much as a glance around. According to Toby, his beer was still full.

Muriel offered me nothing more than a tight smile when I asked what Roy had said.

I don’t want to talk about lonely, crop-top-wearing alcoholics, or crusty old men, though. I need to talk about something that’s been gnawing on my conscience all night.

I drag my fingernail across Jonah’s beard, reveling in the scratching sound. “Jack seemed nice.” I met the man briefly. He was quiet, soft-spoken. Not at all what I imagined the big game hunter to be.

“He’s a good guy,” Jonah agrees. “Smart. I’ve heard he’s a helluva hunter.”

“Did he mention working for him?”

He hesitates. “Yeah.”

“And?”

“And … nothing. It doesn’t work for me.” Jonah studies his hand as he skims the surface of the water with his palm.

“What’s the job?”

“He wants me for three weeks in September. Seven days a week, doing runs every day and being available on call for game pickups. I’d basically be catering to rich politician assholes from the Lower Forty-Eight.”

“And you’d get paid really well doing it.”

Jonah nods somberly.

“But you’d have to stay in McGrath.”

“Sounds like you already know all about this.” He frowns. “Muriel tell you?”