“We hear that a lot,” I say, which isn’t a lie. We hear all kinds of things about the water’s properties, much of it completely unbelievable. Whether any of what people say they experience is true or just placebo effect is above my pay grade. “Bottom line, you won’t find anything like it anywhere else in the world.”
“Can I buy it online?” she asks, examining one of the bottles. “I live in Seattle, and I’d love to have regular shipments.”
I exchange a quick glance with Grayson, who raises an eyebrow ever so slightly. We’ve had this conversation with tourists at least a hundred times since we started bottling.
“Actually, we don’t ship,” I explain. “The nonprofit that bottles the water is community-owned, and part of our mission is encouraging visitors to come experience Heat Mountain for themselves.”
She gives a disappointed shrug, but loads several bottles into her cart. “I guess I’ll have to make another trip out. Maybe in the summer.”
I just smile back at her, resisting the urge to point out that is precisely the point. “That’s a perfect time. The wildflowers start blooming in June. It’s gorgeous.”
Tourism has boomed in Heat Mountain over the last few months. Whitesong’s cabins are almost perpetually booked up and the old hotel is getting renovated in preparation for being opened year-round.
Turns out Ryder’s development plan wasn’t the worst idea, but we’re creating here instead of destroying.
The bell jingles again as the door closes behind her, and I immediately slump against the counter with an exaggerated groan.
“How many times have we had that exact conversation?” I ask, rubbing my face.
“Forty-seven,” Grayson replies without hesitation.
I stare at him. “You’ve been counting?”
“You haven’t?” He sorts the cash in the register. “I’m considering a vow of silence.”
“Normal people don’t count random conversations, Ghost.”
“Normal people don’t stock shelves when they’re independently wealthy.”
“Touché.” I hop up to sit on the counter, ignoring his disapproving look. “I promise to stop helping you here whenever I have something better to do.”
“Speaking of,” Grayson says, checking his phone, “Holly and Noah will be here soon.”
I roll my eyes dramatically. “Yes, I’m aware. I booked their flight.”
“Their plane caught a headwind,” he continues, ignoring my sarcasm. “They’ll be arriving twenty-two minutes ahead of schedule. We need to leave early for the airport.”
I lean over the counter to peek at his phone screen, and sure enough, he’s tracking their flight in real time. A little airplane icon inches its way across the map, surrounded by weather data and arrival estimates.
“Dude,” I say, genuinely impressed. “That is some next-level stalking.”
“It’s called being prepared,” he corrects me, pocketing the phone. “Don’t want them waiting for us at baggage claim because we got stuck in traffic.”
He’d never admit it out loud, but I know Ghost doesn’t want to add even a minute to the time we’ve waited to have our pack back together.
“Three weeks,” I say after a moment, my voice softer. “Feels like forever.”
Grayson nods, understanding the sudden shift in my mood. “Too long.”
“How long you think they’ll stay this time?” I try to keep the question casual, but I know he hears the vulnerability underneath.
“They always come back,” he reminds me, his hand briefly squeezing my shoulder. “That’s what matters.”
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. He’s right, of course. They always come back. But every time Holly and Noah leave on one of their medical missions—this time to Puerto Rico after a devastating hurricane—a tiny, insecure part of me worries they’ll realize they prefer the excitement of crisis medicine to our quiet life in Heat Mountain.
“Hey,” Grayson says, interrupting my thoughts. “Help me close up. We need to get home and shower before heading to the airport.”
“Shower?” I wiggle my eyebrows suggestively. “Together? Grayson Lambe, you scandalous thing.”
