By him.
Maybe that was the real problem.
The more intrigued I became by Carson, the more I could feel myself closing off. Putting up walls as if curiosity was a threat and attraction was the enemy. I didn’t want to need anyone. I didn’t want to depend on a man to feel safe. I’d done just fine for myself, a lifetime of handling things alone.
I didn’t need Carson Reed stepping into my space and making me wonder what it would feel like if someone actually matched me, not just in skill but in steadiness.
I hated that part the most.
I stood and brushed ice crystals from my pants. The wind picked up lightly, blowing cold air over my cheeks. I turned to head back to camp, and my boot hit an icy patch.
It wasn’t catastrophic, but slick enough that my foot slid out from under me. My arms pinwheeled, my heart leapt into my throat, and I caught myself with no screams, drama, or flailing.
Just a clean pivot and a controlled recovery.
My breath came fast for a moment, but it faded quickly. My heartbeat steadied. My pride stayed intact.
“See?” I muttered. “Still a mountain gazelle.”
I didn’t need Carson to catch me every five minutes. I didn’t need anyone to.
I brushed off my coat, spun around to head back—
And froze in place.
Carson was walking toward me.
Through the snow-dusted pines, he walked all straight and sure and warm despite the cold. He had a metal camp mug in one hand, steam rising from it in lazy curls. His other hand was shoved in the pocket of his jacket. His hair was slightly mussed from sleep, like he’d run his fingers through it or had been dreaming and turned once too hard.
And he was staring at me.
Not in a creepy way.
In aconcernedway.
In afocusedway.
In a way that made the ground feel unsteady even without ice.
He stopped three feet from me and held out the mug. “Brought you coffee.”
I stared at the mug as if it might explode. “You made coffee?”
“Yes.”
“For me?”
He raised one eyebrow. “I don’t usually drink two cups at once.”
The heat in my cheeks had nothing to do with the temperature.
I took the mug, and our fingers brushed for half a second. It was ridiculous how much sensation my nervous system packed into that half-second.
“What are you doing out here?” he asked.
“Reflecting,” I said, which sounded far more dramatic aloud than it had in my head.
His eyes flicked over me, assessing in that calm way of his. “Reflecting.”
