My mouth dropped open.
Emma melted. “You two are perfect.”
Carson shot me a sideways glance. “Tell her that.”
When Emma finally wandered back to their tent, humming, I sagged onto my sleeping pad.
“I’m going to die,” I whispered.
Carson stretched out beside me, but we weren’t touching, though I could feel heat radiating from him like the world’s most distracting space heater.
“You’re not going to die.”
“No, I am. I can feel it. This is how I go.”
He lay back on his elbows, head tilted, watching me unravel like some kind of wilderness Shakespeare tragedy. “You’re being dramatic.”
“I learned from the best,” I fired back.
His smile was slow and devastating. “Are you saying I’m dramatic?”
“Emotionally? Yes.”
He laughed again, and I had to look away for the sake of my pulse.
We finished setting up camp and stepped outside into the crisp late afternoon air. The Butterfields walked hand in hand to admire the view, leaving us momentarily alone in the clearing.
“You know this is going to be tricky,” I said quietly.
“The married thing?” he asked.
“No. The… not kissing thing.”
He exhaled, gaze lowering to my lips for half a second before he caught himself. “Yeah. I know.”
“We’re professionals,” I reminded myself more than him.
“We are.”
“We have to behave.”
“Absolutely.”
We stared at each other, but neither of us looked convinced.
After a breath that felt too long, I said, “Okay. Let’s go check the perimeter before dinner.”
He nodded. But before he stepped away, his fingers brushed mine—accidental, subtle, and yet somehow more intimate than anything that had happened today.
I felt a shiver skate up my spine.
He felt it too; I could tell by the way his eyes softened, the tension simmering quietly beneath his calm exterior.
“Mrs. Harper,” he murmured under his breath with just enough teasing to ruin me.
I whispered back, “Stop calling me that.”
The corners of his mouth lifted. “Not a chance.”
