Out of This World Read online

Besides, I did feel…off. And cold, so very damn cold, all the way to my bones.

  And then there was that other little issue, of being able to see through things…

  Kellan had turned away from me to look for the trail, and I couldn’t help myself.

  I looked at his butt.

  Bad eyes.

  Great butt.

  I had no idea what was up with me, but it was starting to get a little annoying.

  I honestly felt as if my every nerve had been sensitized. I felt like I needed to be touched.

  Right now, right here.

  Kel looked over his shoulder and caught me staring.

  Uh-oh. I tried to look away quickly, but there was no denying it. I’d been checking him out.

  He frowned, as if trying to figure this out, as if the idea of me staring at his ass was so foreign, it couldn’t possibly be.

  “Come on,” he said.

  “Right.” I smiled as if everything was normal. As if I got hit by lightning every single day and then could see through people’s clothing, people whom I’d had no idea were hiding such an incredible body…“Coming.”

  I just wished that were really true.

  Chapter 5

  Kellan’s view of things

  H ere’s the crazy thing: I’ve wanted to hold Rachel Wood in my arms for, oh, only my entire life.

  No kidding.

  Well, that’s not quite true. Half the time, I’ve wanted to strangle her.

  But the other half of the time…

  She entered kindergarten the same year as my sister. I’d sit outside during my second-grade recess and watch Rachel dance around on her tiptoes, like a little ballerina in high-top tennis shoes, and even way back then, something within me had fallen head over heels. Of course, that changed pretty quickly when she went on to torture me at every turn for the next two decades.

  In fourth grade, she told her teacher that I called her a butthead (which I had) and got me sent home from school and my mouth washed out with soap. In seventh grade, right before my state championship baseball game, she sneaked into my locker and replaced my jock with her bra. Ever get stepped on by the catcher when you’re in a home run slide without your jock? Not a good time. In ninth grade, she told Cece Brodington that I kissed like a frog. (In all fairness, that one might have been true, too.)

  In high school, she copied all my accounting and algebra work with regularity, but since she got me through the English and world history classes that were hell on Earth for me, I had no real recourse.

  During those years, she began her lifelong lust-affair with badasses, and though I fantasized about being one of them, I couldn’t have been a badass even if I’d learned to smoke without choking. I just didn’t have it in me to be a jerk. But that was okay. I met a lot of girls who liked me just fine how I was.

  Well, maybe not a lot.

  Maybe not even many, but whatever.

  We did kiss once, Rach and I, at my high school graduation. Dot made us do it so she could take a picture. Rachel rolled her eyes, but she leaned in and put her lips to mine for the briefest, most glorious second in history, and then she pulled away laughing.

  I didn’t laugh.

  Hell, I didn’t even breathe.

  I went off to college after that, and I pretended to be relieved of her presence, but that was one big fat lie.

  The entire time she was at UC Santa Barbara studying art and I was at San Diego State studying marine biology had been hell.

  I still live in San Diego, but we get together for weekends now, and without the pressures of school, life is pretty damn good.

  Of course, if Rachel would just realize that I’m her soul mate, then things might be great, but I figure I’m more likely to be the next man on the moon, so I don’t put a lot of stock in hope.

  Besides, one thing I do have is her eternal friendship, which I’ve long ago talked myself into believing is enough.

  Now here we are, stomping through the middle of the Alaska wilds, and she’s been hit by lightning—God!—and I think, I think, I’ve just caught her checking out my ass…

  No doubt I dreamed that last part, but I didn’t dream her crawling up my body a few minutes ago as if she wanted to eat me alive. Nope, that had been real, because I pinched myself to make sure. I just tried to maintain after that. Not easy.

  “Do you know where you’re going?” she asked. Her Capri jeans were filthy, and her ruffled pink top was wet from the rain and newly sheer because of it, though I was desperately trying not to notice that as she squeegeed water out of her hair.

  Did I know where we were going?

  Not so much, actually. When I wasn’t under water with the dolphins, I could get lost finding my way out of a paper bag, and we both knew it. Plus, I didn’t feel so hot myself. I looked around me at the woods, which had all but swallowed us whole. The trail was gone.

  “I’ll figure it out.”

  “How can you see?” she asked, and picked up my glasses, which had fallen to the ground. “I thought you were as blind as a bat without them.”

  Yeah, I was. Always have been. I took them and stuck them in my pocket, because oddly enough, for the first time since kindergarten, I didn’t have to squint to see. No blurry edges, no fuzzy lines. Nothing but perfect clarity. Must be the air. “Not so blind right now.”

  “Huh,” she said, looking at me, “that’s weird.”

  No, what was weird was the trail she’d come in on had vanished into thin air. It’d been right here before the sudden and shockingly vicious downpour, but hell if there was any sight of it now.

  “So do you know where we’re going or not?” she asked.

  “Sure.”

  “Just admit it. You don’t.”

  “I do.”

  She let out an unladylike snort. “What is it with men that they can’t admit when they’re lost?”

  “What good would it do to admit it? It’s not like I can stop and ask for directions.”

  “As if you would if you could.”

  “I would!”

  “Okay, big guy. Whatever you say.” She tossed her hair back, going to work squeezing water out of her pink, ruffled top. Her sheer, pink, ruffled top. Let’s not forget that part. She fisted both hands in the thin material, molding it to her body, as she watched the water drip off her.

  And damn, though irritating as hell, the girl was beautiful. She had this curvy body that I knew drove her insane because it wasn’t model thin, and she had no idea how her curves could make a grown man beg for mercy. Coupled with her wildly wavy brown hair and melting chocolate eyes, she always made me want to beg for mercy, especially now, because her shirt was giving me some serious wet T-shirt fantasies.

  “Men don’t ask for directions,” she scoffed, hands on her hips. “You’re just not programmed to admit when you need help.”

  Beautiful and obnoxious. Did I mention obnoxious?

  “Let’s just start walking, okay?” I said.

  “Humph,” she said, and stomped past me.

  It was wrong, I knew, but when she got pissy, it turned me on. I snagged her arm, pulling her back around, doing my best not to notice that whole sheer-shirt thing she had going on and the fact that she was very cold. Very cold.

  Or turned on.

  The thought that she might be was a huge distraction. “What did that last ‘humph’ mean?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Oh, it’s something.”

  She looked away. “I just thought you were worried about me, that’s all.”

  “I am.”

  She tossed back her wet hair, and sent me a mulish look. “If you’re so worried, you’d have…”

  “What?”

  “Offered to carry me or something,” she muttered.

  I had visions of tossing her over my shoulder and stalking off with her to my cave like a caveman. Me Tarzan, you Jane. “Do you want me to carry you?”

  “Of course not.”

  Yeah, definitely pissy, which made me