All I knew was this: Sienna Harper was avoiding me, and I didn’t understand why.
Or maybe I did.
Because she looked at me the way I looked at her.
Which complicated everything.
Now it was Saturday morning, and she had finally agreed to meet me in the equipment shed to plan our first backcountry trip, which was a honeymoon tour booked for late March.
And she was late.
I leaned against the workbench, arms crossed, breathing in the familiar cold-and-canvas scent of the reorganized shed.
I had spent hours here over the past few days, putting everything in logical order: ropes, tents, stoves, repair kits, water filters. A place for everything and everything in its place.
It soothed me.
Or it did, until footsteps approached outside.
The moment the door creaked open, I felt my pulse shift.
Sienna stepped inside.
She looked beautiful.
Not done-up, that wasn’t her. Hair pulled back in a loose braid, cheeks flushed from the walk, bits of ice still clinging to the soles of her boots. But her eyes… her eyes kept darting toward me, then away, as if looking directly at me burned a little.
What confused me most was the expression she wore.
Nervous.
As if I were the one who might bolt.
“Hi,” she said, too quickly. “Sorry, I’m late. I had a… You know. A morning.”
“A morning,” I echoed.
“Yes. One of those.”
I didn’t know what those were, but she looked like she needed five deep breaths and perhaps divine intervention.
“Everything all right?” I asked.
“Yes. No. Maybe. It’s fine. Definitely fine.” She paused. “Totally not avoiding you.”
I blinked. “I didn’t ask that.”
“Oh.” She cringed. “Good.”
Something warm and traitorous tugged inside my chest.
She was flustered because of me, which was not a thing I was used to.
Sienna cleared her throat and strode toward the workbench. “Anyway. Planning meeting. Right. Let’s…let’s do that.”
She picked up the clipboard, dropped the clipboard, snatched it off the floor, and then pretended she hadn’t almost tripped over her own boots.
I tried not to smile.
