His breath came out in calm, even clouds, while mine puffed like I’d been sprinting across the Arctic tundra. I didn’t know if it was because of the Mama Bear or Carson.
I strapped my own crampons on with more force than necessary, refusing to look at him when he leaned in slightly.
The scent of cedar and cold air and something warm underneath made my brain short-circuit.
“You ready?” he asked.
“No,” I said honestly. “But also yes. But also no.”
“That clears it up.”
“You’re welcome.”
The trail ahead sloped upward, narrow and shaded by old-growth pines. A thin sheet of ice stretched across the first fifty feet, glittering like ghostly danger.
“Wonderful,” I muttered. “The trail is a slip-and-slide.”
“We can handle it,” Carson said.
He said it like a fact, not a reassurance.
And unbelievably… I believed him.
This was so not the kind of spring weather I’d signed up for.
We started the minor ascent, crampons biting into the crust as the sky lightened to a watery peach. The world smelled like pine needles, frost, and morning, with that clean scent that always made me feel alive and grounded.
But the world also contained Carson Reed.
Which made me feel the opposite of grounded.
I focused on the trail, the incline, the snowpack, anything but him.
“My hope,” I said, because talking kept me alive, “is that this is all melted by the time we bring the honeymoon couple out. I mean, look at this. They’ll spend the whole trip sliding around like newborn deer.”
“Deer are capable,” he said.
“These people are from Chicago, Carson.”
“Point taken.”
“And they’re newlyweds. They’ll definitely be distracted.”
“Understandable.”
“They’ll be looking at each other, not the ground.”
“Also understandable.”
I stopped mid-step. “You’re not helping.”
“I didn’t know I was supposed to.”
“You’re supposed to tell me I’m being ridiculous.”
He met my gaze without flinching. “You’re not ridiculous.”
Oh no.
