“It was protective.”
“It was both.”
Damn him.
He said things too calmly. Too straightforwardly. Too… intentionally without being intentional. As if he didn’t even realize the effect he had.
He set down his pack and knelt to clear the fire pit. His gloves swept the ash basin in clean arcs, and I had to look away because watching Carson work with his hands should have been illegal in at least twelve states.
Focus, Sienna.
Right.
Camp setup.
I reached for the tent bag on my pack and pulled it free with a little too much frustration.
“So, the couple will have this one,” I said. “We’ll test it. Make sure the poles aren’t bent. Make sure the fly fits. Make sure the seams don’t leak. Basic quality control.”
“Good.”
“Great.”
“Excellent.”
I glared at him. “If you say one more agreeable word in that tone, I’m tossing you off the ridge.”
He raised one eyebrow. “Tone?”
“You know the tone.”
“I truly don’t.”
I mimicked him: “Good. Great. Excellent.”
His mouth almost twitched.
Almost.
I upended the tent bag too quickly, and the poles spilled in a tangle.
I sighed. “Yep. I’m killing it out here.”
Carson knelt beside me. “Let me help.”
“No,” I said too fast. “I’ve got it.”
The pole in my hand immediately snapped back and hit me in the cheek.
He exhaled slowly. “You’ve got it.”
“Shut up.”
He unzipped his jacket and flung it to a rock because, apparently, he was Superman, and plucked the poles effortlessly from my hands and began assembling the frame with the competence of someone who’d done this a thousand times. I told myself I wasn’t watching his forearms under his flannel as he worked.
I lied to myself.
After ten silent, torturous seconds of admiring him in pure agony, I blurted, “So, uh—you’ve guided a lot of trips.”
