Hell. The week had just gotten a lot longer.
THREE
This was starting to feel like a mistake.
Miranda kept her nervousness hidden, though she shifted on her feet repeatedly as the survival class gathered and the two instructors talked in low voices in the distance. This had seemed like a great idea a few days ago. It hadn’t been easy to get into the class at the last minute, but she’d made up some sort of excuse that her new job wanted some team-building work on her resume, forked over the ridiculous amount of money for the weeklong training, and passed the preliminary physical with flying colors. Easy enough.
Her goal was simple. Find Dane Croft, flirt up a storm, and use her feminine wiles to hook him. If it were any other man, she’d have concerns about playing the seductress, but Casanova Croft was legendary for his exploits. The man was a poon hound, and she intended to use that against him. She’d get him dancing to her tune, get him a little compromised, and then let the camera in her backpack do the damage.
This week, she was going to let her evil side rule things. Good Miranda was definitely going to be shoved to a back burner. Center stage? Evil Miranda.
Now, looking at the people surrounding her, this didn’t seem like the brightest idea she’d ever had. The class was small—six people to an instructor. Five men lined up next to her, and all seemed ready to go and eager to spend the next week in the wild. Four of the five were dressed in camouflage, and one had even painted his face with black stripes under each eye, as if he were expecting to run a few downs of football after hiking. They’d also gone overboard on the gear. Since they’d been instructed to pack extremely light, she’d decided to wear comfortable clothing over her sexiest underwear. After all, she didn’t want to seem too obvious. Her hiking boots were just beat-up jogging shoes, for example. But the others seemed like they had cleaned out the local sporting goods store, and their shoes were clean and crisp and had probably been taken out of the box minutes before they arrived here.
All of the men in her group—in both groups, really—were relatively fit and lean and likely in their late thirties or forties. In addition to being the youngest one here, Miranda was also the only female other than the assistant, who took everyone’s waivers and wrote up their information on a clipboard.
It was an acute, disturbing feeling. A week alone in the wilderness with six guys and just her? It had all the makings of a bad p**n o.
Out of the corner of her eye, Miranda saw the second instructor approach the group of waiting clients. He was wearing a black T-shirt that had the survival school’s logo on the back. When he turned at someone’s question, Miranda recognized him, and not just from the photo. Colt Waggoner hadn’t changed much since high school. He’d gotten taller, but he was still lean and muscled. Instead of wearing the sloppy, oversized T-shirts she remembered him in, he was dressed sharply, his T-shirt tucked into camouflage pants and shiny boots on his feet. As the client addressed him, Colt stood with his hands clasped behind his back.
“No, sir,” Colt replied in a crisp voice to the man’s low question. “No outside electronics.”
The man looked at everyone else nervously. “Oh, well. I just thought I’d ask.”
Colt gave him a crisp nod and then began to walk past the group. He stopped and paused in front of Miranda, recognition dawning on his face. “Miranda. What are you doing here?”
She pulled out a crumpled brochure and waved it in front of her, feeling like an idiot under Colt’s piercing stare. “Thought I’d take the class. How are you doing, Colt? It’s good to see you.”
“Fine,” he said stiffly, then tilted his head. “You’re still in Bluebonnet?”
“Haven’t left,” she said awkwardly. Ever. Oh God. Please don’t ask me why I stayed. Please don’t ask me why I stayed.
“I’m sorry,” he said in a short, clipped voice. His hands clasped behind his back, and his “relaxed” pose was still stiffer than most. Military, maybe?
“Sorry?”
“Sorry that you haven’t left. This town is a joke.”
A surprised laugh erupted from her throat. “So it is. What brings you back, then?”
“Business,” he said. “Grant’s here, too. We—”
“Colt,” Dane yelled from behind him. “Hey, Colt. C’mere.”
Colt tilted his head again, a little, and he didn’t turn to look at Dane. “If you’ll excuse me, Miranda. Nice to see you again.”
“You, too,” she said faintly. “Welcome back.”
Colt turned and trotted off to Dane’s side up the hill. Dane leaned in close, saying something in a rapid-fire, angry tone. Miranda couldn’t make it out, though. Dane said something, and both men turned and looked back at her. Then they spoke again. To her surprise, Colt patted the front of Dane’s pants and said something. Dane swung a punch, but Colt ducked out of the way, smirking. Dane didn’t look amused—he looked pissed. When Dane gestured sharply in her direction, a bit of a smile curved Miranda’s mouth. Well, at least that was something. Anger was better than nothing. When she’d first extended her hand for Dane to shake, there had been a blank look on his face, as if he didn’t quite know what to make of seeing her here.
She had to admit, she didn’t know what to make of him either. A smirk she’d have expected. A lecherous grin she’d have expected. The baffled look he’d given her? Not so much.
Brenna paused in front of Miranda, peering down at her clipboard. “Do you have your registration packet with you?”
She handed the paperwork to Brenna and was given a red bandana in return.
“You’re going to be on the red team,” Brenna announced. “The red instructor will be your leader for the next week. Wear your bandana at all times, as we’re going to have a few team-versus-team challenges later in the week.”
“Got it,” Miranda said in a meek voice. “And my instructor is Dane?”
The assistant glanced up and gave her a searching look, a hint of a frown on her face.
“I’m a hockey fan,” Miranda hastily explained, lying through her teeth. “Plus, he and I go way back. High school and all that.”
She didn’t point out that she’d gone to high school with Colt Waggoner, too.
“You’re not here for hockey or class reunions. You’re here for survival training,” Brenna said. “If that’s going to be a problem, I can switch instructors—”