My eyebrows shot up. “Oh no.”
“Oh yes.”
“Did they try to take selfies with the elk?”
“Yes.”
“Unbelievable,” I muttered. “People are unhinged.”
He nodded. “One of them also packed three scented candles in her pack because she thought it would attract mountain energy.”
I snorted coffee up my nose. “Oh my God.”
“She lit one. A pine-scented one. While standing next to actual pine trees.”
I wheezed into my sleeve. “This is why we can’t have nice things.”
“It is a miracle they survived,” he agreed.
“No, seriously,” I said, wiping my nose, “I once guided a guy who brought twenty-two protein bars and nothing else. Not even water. But he had flavors. A selection. Like he was curating snacks for the apocalypse.”
Carson smiled again. An honest, unexpected one that made my insides flutter like they were auditioning for a dance competition.
“And yet you survived them all,” he said.
“I’m a wilderness professional.”
“That is debatable.”
He laughed softly, and something warm twisted beneath my ribs.
Too warm.
Too friendly.
Too easy.
This was the problem. Carson and I should have been awkward and distant and entirely incompatible conversationally. Instead, we were talking like we had been swapping stories for years.
And I hated how good that felt.
Because good was dangerous. Good chipped at my walls. Good made me think about things I did not allow myself to think about.
Romance.
Wanting.
Being seen.
No. Absolutely not. Denied. Rejected. Return to sender.
I gulped my coffee to drown the thought, but nearly choked when I saw Abby leaning over the counter, watching us with binocular-grade intensity.
She mouthed, “Millie?”
I mouthed back, “No.”
She gave me an angelic smile and made the universal phone call gesture.
