“Come back whenever,” he says, still not meeting my eyes. “I’ll make sure someone’s around.”
“Someone,” I echo, smiling too brightly. “Got it.”
He nods once, all business again, and steps back as I climb into my car. Pumpkin trots up with a stick. I toss it, and the dog bounds away. Dylan watches, arms folded, unreadable.
I start the engine, roll down the window. “Thanks again, Dylan.”
He lifts a hand. “Good to see you, Taegen.”
The gravel crunches as I pull away. In the rearview mirror, he’s still standing there, the wind tugging at his shirt, the farm spread out behind him like a world he built to keep himself busy.
Halfway down the mountain road, the rush finally settles. My hands are steady on the wheel. My lips are not. Every time I blink I see that moment at the bottom of the zipline—the look on his face right before the kiss, like he’d been waiting years for me to remember something we never said.
“Unprofessional,” I mutter to the windshield. “Totally.”
The road curves. The valley opens up below, gold and green and impossibly alive. I should be thinking about headlines and photo captions. Instead, all I can think is that I might have just developed a crush on my childhood best friend, who grew up way too good-looking for my peace of mind.
And the worst part?
I can’t wait to see him again.
FIVE
DYLAN
Two days later, I’m ankle-deep in pine needles and sawdust when Quinn’s voice carries through the trees.
“Are you out here digging to the other side of the world, or what?”
I straighten, push my cap back, and wipe the sweat from my neck with the hem of my T-shirt.
“Just trying to make something worth the mess.”
He steps around a birch, hands in his jacket pockets, eyes scanning the little stretch of trail I’ve been hacking away at all morning.
“Looks like the kind of mess Mom used to warn us about. You going feral again?”
“Something like that.”
He ducks under a low branch, curiosity replacing sarcasm as he spots the string of solar lights I’ve been testing.
“You building another obstacle course?”
“Not exactly.”
I gesture toward the curve of path where the first few decorations stand. They look a little ridiculous in daylight—painted mushrooms, a gnome missing half his beard, an old wagon wheel propped up like it’s waiting for a story to start.
But at night, with the fairy lights and the lantern jars I’ve rigged from Tricia’s craft stash, it’s got a pulse.
Quinn whistles. “Huh.”
“Yeah,” I say, suddenly nervous. “Got the idea from some of the stuff left in the old storage shed and a friend. Figured we could give it all a second life.”
He walks a few feet down the trail. Solar lights blink awake in the shade, one by one, little orbs catching in the dark green.
“This is…” He stops, nodding slowly. “Actually, this is good.”
“The trail’s rough still,” I admit. “Needs grading and a handrail by the creek, but?—”
