“Yeah.” He was fidgeting, and I knew from sitting beside him for hours on end that Noah Grady was not a fidgeter.
Something niggled in the back of my mind—from his phone call. A meeting.
It was gradually becoming clear that Noah Grady’s life wasn’t as perfect as I’d imagined it.
If he wanted to talk, I was willing to listen. But I wouldn’t push.
So when he clamped his mouth shut, I just started walking again, and after a second, he fell into step beside me.
Neither of us spoke. And weirdly, it wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t uncomfortable.
And instead of peppering him with questions about a subject that obviously made him uncomfortable, my brain latched onto something completely unrelated.
“How did you know I put cilantro in my guacamole?”
His lips quirked, and I knew. Noah Grady had watched other videos from the show!
But why would he go to the trouble to do that? Boredom? Or maybe he wanted to see if I’d dumped any other dishes over Leo’s head.
Or did he search out the old videos for some other reason?
Before he could answer, the trail widened into a clearing, and we were surrounded by people again.
Tourists milled around the arch, snapping photos, chatting, pointing. The view stretched vast and unreal in front of us, the red rock curving into the sky like something out of a painting.
Noah held out a hand. “Give me your phone.”
I blinked. “What?”
“You wanted pictures, right?” His brows lifted.
Oh.
I could take my own pictures. I was perfectly capable of a selfie. But he was just…being nice.
I handed my phone over, and although it felt weird at first—to be posing for a picture alone instead of as one half of a couple—Noah was fast, snapping one with the horizon behind me, and before I even realized what was happening, one with Babs throwing up a peace sign.
She’d photobombed me.
It was perfect.
FRAGILE HEARTS
At our final stop of the day, our group split up, some heading toward Double Arch while the rest of us followed the trail looping around to the Windows Arch.
Neither trail was even a mile long. Easy. A nice, scenic stroll.
At least, that was what I told myself.
With the sun even hotter now, the ache in my head was more of a drumbeat, and my mouth was as dry as the dirt under my feet. My arms and legs were heavy, my energy dipping faster than I wanted to admit.
Oh, look at that. Turns out tequila isn’t a great hydration strategy.
At least my skin wasn’t burning any more than it already had yesterday. Thanks to Noah.
I craned my neck back so I could glance over at him.
“Are you a runner?” I asked. He’d had no trouble catching Morty’s hat.
