Shits and Oh fucks were mixed in with Watch outs and Be carefuls. The first few seconds were a chaotic blur, with the raft spinning every which way, and never the way Corrie intended. She needed to get control.
“Guys! Stop. Listen to me. Memo, paddle hard. Ford, sink your paddle to help turn. Jon, get your paddle out of the water.”
She commanded them back into a straight line, directing who should paddle and when. And they actually listened. Even Ford.
“Okay, looks like we’re almost out of it,” she said.
The rapids settled as they neared the clearing. Jon and Memo turned to celebrate, but they celebrated too soon. With a thwack, the front of the raft tipped up, lifting out of the water. Jon and Memo clung to the raft. But Corrie couldn’t hang on. She fell backward into the water with a smack. Something hit her in the chest. Something from the boat. She tried to grab it, but her head went underwater, flooding her eyes so she couldn’t see. Her body bobbed in the river as she caught breaths between submersions, though she still took a fair bit of water into her lungs.
For exactly three seconds the thought that she might drown crossed her mind. Until a firm, strong arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her to the boat. Having already felt that arm around her waist once today, she knew exactly who it was.
“What are you doing?” she managed to spit out. “I said don’t jump in after anyone.”
“Yeah, well, it’s a good thing I don’t listen to you,” Ford said, reaching his free arm to the raft and slinging Corrie to the edge with the other as Jon and Memo reached to help her in. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
“I had it,” she spat out, wiping her matted hair away from her face. Never mind that brief moment of panic. She had a life vest, after all. And they were right at the end of the whitewater.
Ford lifted himself into the boat without assistance from the guys. “Okay. Keep telling yourself that.” Without looking at her, he crossed the boat, went over to his bag, and pulled out his glasses.
“Are you okay, Dr. Mejía?” Memo asked.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” Aside from the fact that she looked like a wet rat, that was, and that she’d needed a man—and not just any man, but specifically Ford—to save her. “Maybe we should find a spot to camp for the night sooner rather than later.” It wasn’t much earlier than they’d planned to stop, anyway.
They paddled leisurely for another fifteen minutes until they finally came upon a location with an easy pull-out spot but that was also up away from the riverbank in case it rained. Once on dry land, Corrie tossed her life jacket to the ground and squeezed the water out of her hair. Every part of her was soaked. Including her ego.
“Jon, would you mind tossing me my bag?” she asked as Jon and Memo unpacked their things. She turned around to face the boat and then immediately froze, her mouth dropping at the sight of Ford on the other side, lifting his waterlogged shirt off his body.
And oh . . . my . . . fucking . . . God. Ford wasn’t built for adventures. Ford was the adventure.
Corrie had been with lots of attractive guys. But they were always more of the Oh, good, he looks like his profile pic kind of guys. The ones who didn’t disappoint when they walked into the bar or restaurant for the date. But she’d never been with a guy who’d caused her to stare. Or drool.
Which was exactly what Ford was doing to her right now.
She couldn’t pull her eyes away. Instead, they shifted from his shoulders to his pecs, then to his biceps, followed by his abs. Each area well defined. Smooth, with a little smattering of hair on his chest. Toned and muscular, but not too bulky. He clearly spent time in the gym, but not all his time.
Why? Why did she have to be attracted to him? Of all people.
“Um, Dr. Mejía?” Jon said, finally tearing her attention away from Ford’s physique. “I don’t . . . I don’t see your bag. In fact, there are only three dry bags and the equipment and food bags.”
“What?!”
She ran over to the raft and started sorting through the packs. No, no, no! Her bag was gone, and with it, the tent that had been strapped to it.
“It’s got to be somewhere,” Ford said, slinging the wet shirt over his shoulder with a slap as it made contact with his skin. Couldn’t he put it back on? Did he have to torture her at this exact moment?
Corrie’s eyes narrowed at Ford. This was his fault. “Well, it’s not. I told you to secure the bags.”
“You’re going to blame me for this? I saved your life!”
Corrie scoffed. “Again, I didn’t need your help.”
Ford stared blankly at her. “You really can’t accept it, can you? Accept that sometimes you need help from others?”
“Well, in case you haven’t noticed, in this instance you have done the opposite of help me. Now I don’t have any clothes or a tent for tonight.”
“Like you think any of the three of us would actually let you sleep without a tent.” He rolled his eyes. He then reached for his own bag, yanked off the tent strapped to the side, and tossed it at Corrie. “You can have mine. I’ll sleep by the fire. At least that will give you one less thing to complain about.”
Complain? She opened her mouth to protest, but he stormed off, taking with him the rest of the equipment. Jon and Memo stood silent, clearly not knowing how to respond. But, frankly, as she looked at the tent in her hands, neither did Corrie.
Sure, she was pissed that her bag was gone, though luckily most of her belongings were still at the main camp. But . . . he had rescued her, whether she’d wanted him to or not. And he did hand over his tent. Why was she being so hard-nosed? Why was she letting him get to her?
They set up the camp, and Jon, Memo, and Corrie pitched their tents as Ford started a fire. The small individual tents didn’t have much room, but at least they were easy to put together. Jon and Memo had resumed their pre-rapids conversation about the World Series.
“Here,” Ford said, standing over her as she crouched next to her tent, tacking down the rainfly. In his hand was a wad of fabric.
“What’s that?”
“A long-sleeved T-shirt and some boxers. I don’t have much but thought you might want to change out of those clothes for the night.”
She hesitated for a moment, with the urge to decline on the tip of her tongue. But, much to her surprise—and his—she took the clothes. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” He didn’t wait any longer before heading back to the fire.
The evening was calm, much calmer than the day had been. Corrie and Ford let Jon and Memo do all the talking as they sat and ate their dinner in silence. Ford had been smart enough, at least, to bring a flask. They passed that around, allowing Corrie to take the edge off. After Jon and Memo went to sleep, Corrie and Ford sat by the fire in continued silence, their eyes never connecting. What was there to say, really? Practically every time they opened their mouths they got into an argument. That was the real problem. Corrie wasn’t talked out. She was argued out.
Despite the lack of conversation and eye contact, however, Corrie’s body was on high alert, reacting to every one of Ford’s subtle movements. The flex of muscles in his forearms. The crack of his neck when he stretched. The pop of his lips when he took a nip from the flask. He handed over the flask without words, and she brought the small copper container to her mouth, soaking in the heavy rye scent. Would she ever be able to enjoy rye again without associating it with him?