Timber Lake (The Snowy Range Series, #2) by Nya Rawlyns

Days might be getting longer, but that doesn’t mean much when you’re down in a canyon. We got us a ways to go before we can find a place to camp.”
    He’d expected to find a few anglers hogging all the best spots, but mercifully they were alone. Withdrawing the hard shell carrying case protecting his fishing tackle from the pannier, he berated himself for not picking up a soft side version the last time he’d been in Laramie. Up to now he hadn’t worried too much about excess weight since he tended to travel light, catching his meals, and using his portable water purification system to handle his hydration requirements.
    He’d been tempted to force Sonny to abide by his own minimalist standards, but good sense and a guilty conscience overrode his baser instincts. Just because the man drove him batshit nuts with those bedroom eyes and an ass that might as well be wearing a neon sign flashing do me, do me hard wasn’t a decent enough excuse.
    Besides, one thing he’d grown sensitive to was how his own hair trigger temper was often misdirected at folks who didn’t deserve a shitload of ugly coming down on their heads. People who succumbed to that behavior were called bullies. He despised them. Sometimes that meant he despised himself, but it was something he was working on.
    Dr. Seamus Rydell had him considering he might want to work harder at it.
    That wasn’t the only thing he needed to work on. It had taken every ounce of self-control he could muster not to jump the fire pit the night before and strip blondie down to his creamy flesh, licking his way from the man’s toes to...
    Crap, down boy.
    As he cast his line, Sonny came up behind him, chattering like a magpie. “Found a level spot, but it’s too close to the trail. I don’t think this would be a suitable location for the instrumentation we’re looking to install.” He held up a compact camera. “Took pics, just in case.”
    The tall drink of water looked so kissable, Michael considered dropping the tackle and showing sex-on-a-stick the meaning of suitable. Reluctantly he suggested, “How about getting a fire going. There’s aluminum foil in the saddle kit.”
    “You certainly came prepared. Sounds like you brought everything but the kitchen sink.”
    Michael huffed, “That’s why I bring a horse, not a pony, to the party.” He wrist-flicked the line again, sensing some interest. “Go on, lab rat, or we’ll be having sushi instead of nice fried brookie.”
    Sonny carefully wrapped the remains of the trout in the aluminum foil and tucked it into a plastic garbage bag for disposal when they got back to civilization. Michael concentrated on dousing the small fire and generally making their temporary picnic area look nearly as pristine as when they arrived. It took his mind off his misery, since watching Sonny lick his fingers, one at a time, had been almost more than he could take.
    What nagged at Michael was the question... was blondie completely clueless about the effect he was having, or was he deliberately taunting him? Clueless he could almost buy. The man was only four or five years younger than him, but he acted naïve and guileless most of the time.
    Rydell had mentioned he was the youngest in a family of women. Most times being the baby in the family meant you got coddled and spoiled rotten, but instead of growing up a selfish little prick like you’d expect, Sonny displayed amazing sensitivity. Sensitive and clueless made for an interesting combination.
    But then there was that harder edge he’d caught a glimpse of in the parking area. Sonny had let his inner devil loose, just a fraction, when he’d taken off with the rig, leaving him to hoof it all the way to the lodge grounds. He’d been pissed purple at first, but all it took was one look at the guy’s guilty puppy dog face and all bets were off.
    George had reminded him, none too kindly, he had deserved it. Besides, turnabout was fair play, especially when he hadn’t been on