A cupcake.
In Timber Creek.
In January.
I shouldn’t be thinking about it. I should be thinking about traction and road conditions and radioing in my status.
Instead, I’m thinking about how her lips look chapped and how I want to fix it.
I clear my throat, annoyed at myself. “Start her up.”
She climbs back in. The engine turns over. Tires crunch.
The SUV shifts forward—slow, hesitant—then catches.
Relief crosses her face so fast it knocks something loose in me.
“Okay,” she says, half-laughing. “We’re moving. We’re alive. Darlene lives to fight another day.”
“Darlene?” I ask before I can stop myself.
She points to the dashboard like it’s obvious. “My SUV. She has a name.”
“She does.”
“Don’t judge us.”
I should tell her I’m absolutely judging her.
Instead I hear myself ask, “Why Darlene?”
She shrugs, smiling. “Because she’s dramatic, unpredictable, and occasionally tries to ruin my life.”
I stare at her for a second too long.
Because that’s also the best description of love I’ve ever heard.
I step back, motioning her to follow my truck. “You’re headed to Bluebird cabin?”
“Yes.”
“Stay close. Road gets worse near the switchback.”
She nods and then—like she can’t help herself—adds, “So… you’re really with Haven 7?”
“Yeah.”
“Like… mountain rescue.”
“Like mountain rescue,” I confirm.
She looks past me, up toward the dark outline of Wedding Cake Mountain, its jagged shape swallowed by clouds. “That sounds… intense.”
“It can be.”
“What made you do it?”
The question lands sharper than it should.
