“Psst …”
I nudge Jake. He groans.
“Psst!”
He rolls away from me.
“Jake! I need the truck keys,” I whisper-yell.
Another groan.
My eyes flit between his bared torso turned away from me and his partially unzipped duffel
bag at his feet. Jake has nice feet. I’m not sure I’ve ever thought this about a guy before. But—I
move my phone’s flashlight an inch closer—yes indeed, he has nice feet. Not a single nasty
callous, and his toenails are perfect.
Not fair. What the heck, God? Why would you give a guy such perfect feet? Jackass Jake
must use an expensive foot cream.
I roll my eyes at myself. What is this? The beginning of a foot fetish? Therapy of some sort
might be in my future. After one last inspection of his flawless feet, and maybe a nanosecond
glance back up his bare torso—because why the hell not?—I inspect the contents of his bag.
It has five outer pockets, but I come up empty. No truck keys. Unzipping the main part feels
a little too snoopy. Biting the corner of my lip, I sweep the beam of my phone’s light across his
still body. If I’m completely honest, his feet are attached to some other really nice body parts, but
why start being honest now?
The light goes out. “Shit.” I frown at the dead screen. What happened to my final three
percent?
Key.

I need the key. I need to charge my phone.
“Jakey Jakey, wakey wakey,” I whisper, knowing he’s nothing more than a dead log on top of
a sleeping bag. A dead log with sexy feet and a drool-worthy trunk I could climb—
Gah!
I must NEVER think of the Devil as sexy. Did I learn nothing about temptation from Eve and
the complete debacle in Eden? A questionably flawed story if you ask me. Still—religion
permanently haunts one’s conscience, and I’m no exception.
Don’t snoop.
Wait until he wakes up.
It’s not like it’s an emergency.
It’s just my phone—my connection to the rest of the world, a way to see in the dark, keeper
of time, contact list, social media notifications, my savior in an emergency … MY LIFE!
Muzzling my conscience, I dive into the main compartment of Jake’s duffle bag, the way a
police officer would break open a door after a 9-1-1 call. It’s filled with clothes, but within ten
seconds I have all aforementioned clothes strewn all around me.
No keys.
A jingle startles me, and my head whips back, but it’s just Swarley. “Don’t!” I warn in my
sternest whisper as he abandons his spot in the corner and plops down on my sleeping bag. “Get.
Off!”
He shakes his head once. I realize how crazy that sounds, but it’s true. Swarley is not your
average dog, he’s a demon—much like Jake—out to destroy me. He can do things like nod and
shake his head as well as rip my poor hand apart when he sees something worth chasing, much
like Anthony ripped my heart apart when he discovered that chocolate does in fact taste amazing.

Fucker.
Before my herbivorous travel buddy wakes up, I start shoving his clothes back into his bag,
taking a deep inhale. What’s that smell? It’s good. Really good.
Herbaceous? Woodsy? Maybe piney, but we’re not amidst that many pine trees here.
Bringing one of Jake’s shirts to my nose, I take a whiff.
Oh … that’s nice. Son of a bitch! Sexy—uh—I mean, soft feet and amazing detergent.
Eat the shiny red apple, Eve …
I’m not going to eat his shirt, but I indulge in one more sniff before—
“Why are you smelling my underwear?”
“Shit!” I jump, tucking the shirt behind my back.