Not the careful, polite curve of lips I’ve seen her give her parents, strangers, or even me until now.
This is different.
Real.
Unguarded joy breaking through the layers of caution and control she desperately holds onto like a kid holding onto his favorite stuffed animal.
I can’t answer because my chest constricts, squeezing something loose that I’ve kept locked away for too long.
Her eyes shine with wonder, crinkled at the corners as her teeth catch her lower lip like she’s embarrassed by her own excitement.
Fuck.
“Julien?” Her smile falters, confusion creasing her brow as she tilts her head. “What’s wrong?”
I shouldn’t want her this badly.
She’s Nicklas’s daughter. This is exactly what he wanted when he tried to force the marriage. But fuck, I can’t stay away. I need more of that smile.
“Yeah.” The syllable feels inadequate, stuck to the roof of my mouth. “Just…”
Just what? Just realizing I’ve been an asshole? Just noticing how the sunlight catches the blue-gray of her eyes, making them look like morning mist over water?
I clear my throat. Her eyes narrow slightly, trying to read me like she always does, and this time she might. I move before she can see too much, stepping closer, my fingers brushing hers as I take the flower from her palm.
It’s so small I’m afraid I’ll crush it, this fragile thing that’s somehow survived when so much hasn’t.
“It is beautiful.” I tuck it behind her ear, the purple petals a stark contrast against her dark hair. My fingertips graze the soft skin of her temple, and I feel her slight inhale, and the way she holds herself perfectly still. “It suits you.”
A beautiful pink color floods her cheeks. She glances down, then back up, uncertainty written across her face.
I step back before I do something stupid like trace the curve of her cheekbone, kiss her, or worse, tell her what I’m thinking. That she reminds me of this flower, surviving in the harshest conditions, beautiful despite everything.
“We should get going.” I grab her hand, interlacing our fingers. “Pine Lake isn’t far. We can make it on foot.”
Her hand feels small in mine, fingers cool against my palm. It’s more practical this way. I can keep her close, guide her, and make sure she doesn’t do something stupid or stumble with her still-healing concussion.
Her fingers tighten around mine. “How far?”
“Couple miles.” I scan the road ahead. “Hour, tops.”
We walk in comfortable silence, our joined hands swinging gently between us as birds sing around us, the wind rustles through tall grass, and sunlight dapples the ground through the tree branches. If I ignore the absence of cars and people, I can almost pretend we’re just a couple taking a Sunday hike.
Almost.
My free hand stays close to my machete, eyes constantly scanning for movement.
“What’s Pine Lake like?” she asks.
“Quiet. Remote.” I help her over a fallen log, a smile touching my lips. “Dad used to take us fishing there. Later, Cameron and I worked as counselors at the camp.”
“You were a camp counselor?” Her voice carries a note of surprise, like she can’t picture me with kids.
“Shocking, I know.” I squeeze her hand as we navigate around a pothole. “Hard to imagine me with a whistle and a clipboard.”
“I’m trying to picture it.” Her lips twitch. “Did you make the kids do push-ups?”
“Just basic survival skills. Knot tying. Fire starting. How to find north without a compass.”
