Owen has finished most of the food and sits straighter now, his complexion less ghostly. When he stands, his movements are more fluid. The worst of the hangover seems to have receded.
“Better?” I ask as he pushes his chair in.
His eyes meet mine for a fleeting moment before darting away. “Yeah,” he says. “Thanks.”
That blush again, spreading from his cheeks down his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt. I find myself wondering how far down it goes. How much of his body would flush pink under different circumstances—under my hands, my mouth.
The thought ambushes me. I’ve never had these kinds of thoughts about a man before, yet they feel natural, inevitable even.
“Everyone got sunscreen? Water? Snacks?” Ava calls out. “The trail has some exposed sections, so hats are recommended.”
Owen tugs a baseball cap from his back pocket and pulls it on. The gesture is casual, but I find myself tracking the movement of his hands, the way the cap tames his disheveled hair but can’t contain it completely. Golden strands escape around the edges, catching the light.
“We should…” he gestures toward the door where the others are gathering, his eyes still avoiding mine.
“Yeah,” I agree, though part of me wishes we could skip the hike, return to our room, and finish what started last night—this time with both of us conscious and consenting.
But that conversation needs to happen first. And for that, we need privacy.
As we join the others by the lodge entrance, I position myself behind Owen, close enough to catch his scent—soap and coffee and sweet cherries beneath it all. The proximity is deliberate, a silent claim in this space. Zara sidles up next to him, already starting to talk. I watch the tension return to Owen’s shoulders. Six miles of hiking stretch ahead of us. Six miles of group dynamics and socializing. But somewhere in those woods, there will be an opportunity—a moment when the group spreads out, when conversation pairs shift. And when that moment comes, I’ll be ready.
I want to understand this pull between us. To know if last night was a drunken mistake or the beginning of something neither of us expected to find. Most of all, I want to see if sober Owen responds to my commands the way I think he will—with that delicious mix of resistance and surrender.
As we file out of the lodge and toward the trailhead, I keep my eyes on the back of his neck, on the vulnerable spot where his hairline tapers beneath his cap.
Mine, a voice in me whispers.
A claim I have no right to make, based on nothing but a drunken encounter and a breakfast intervention.
And yet.
3
Owen
MY ATTENTION KEEPS SLIPPING away from Zara’s descriptions of her design project, drawn instead to the man hiking several paces behind us. I can feel Slade’s presence like a physical weight against my back. My head still throbs from last night’s whiskey, but the pain pales compared to the burning embarrassment of what I did.
“—so the client wants something that pops, you know?” Zara’s bracelets jingle with each gesture as she speaks. “I was thinking if we focused on the navigation—”
“Makes sense,” I mumble, nodding at what I hope is an appropriate interval.
My gaze drifts to the forest floor, where sunlight dapples the dirt path through gaps in the canopy. The greasy breakfast Slade forced on me is the only reason I’m functioning at all. The thought of him—of how he took charge, how he set that plate in front of me and expected obedience—sends an unwelcome shiver down my spine.
“You’re not listening, are you?” Zara stops mid-sentence, a knowing smile playing on her lips.
“Sorry. Hangover.” It’s not a lie, but it isn’t the whole truth, either.
“I get it.” She pats my arm. “We’ve all been there. Though I have to say, you were really going for it at the bar last night.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “Was I that bad?”
“You weren’t sloppy, if that’s what you’re worried about. Just…determined. Like a man on a mission.”
A mission to forget Maia and Jace. I realize I haven’t thought about them once this morning, have paid no attention to them at breakfast, and am barely aware of them now.
It’s funny—last night I was so wound up about them it somehow led my straight-as-an-arrow self to kiss another man. A man who didn’t kiss me back. He hadn’t pushed me away, but he hadn’t responded either. Just let me make a complete fool of myself.
“The trail splits up,” Bryce calls from the front of our group. “Stay left for the lower route.”
