All for prize money. All for my mom.
I picked up my pen and drew a new line on the map, bypassing the washed-out section of Blackrock Ridge. I didn’t know where the bypass was yet.
But Evan did.
And he’d offered to show me.
I told myself the flutter in my stomach was just the coffee hitting on an empty stomach.
It was easier than admitting it had started the moment he said my booth like he owned it—and looked at me like he wanted me to stay.
2
EVAN
Isaw her before she saw me.
Eight o’clock on the dot. The trailhead parking lot at the end of Creekside Road was filling up with the usual festival crowd—couples in matching hiking boots, a few retirees with expensive cameras, a family with two kids who’d be asking to turn around within the first half mile.
I’d done this tour a dozen times already this season. I could run it in my sleep.
But Paisley walked up from the gravel shoulder where she must have parked, and something in my chest shifted like a fault line giving way.
She’d pulled her hair back this morning. Yesterday, at the Pancake House, it had been down—dark and a little wild around her shoulders—and I’d been distracted enough by her maps and her attitude that I hadn’t fully processed the rest of her.
I was processing it now.
The way her hiking pants fit. The way she moved—efficient, purposeful, no wasted energy. She had a daypack that looked like it had actually seen trails, not something bought for theoccasion, and her boots were broken in. Scuffed in the right places. Trusted.
She spotted me near the trailhead sign and raised a hand. Not a wave, exactly. More of an acknowledgment. Like we had an understanding.
We did. I just wasn’t sure she knew the full extent of it yet.
“Morning,” I said as she joined the group. “Glad you made it.”
“You said eight o’clock. It’s eight o’clock.” She adjusted her pack strap and glanced at the other hikers milling around. “How many in the group?”
“Fourteen, counting you.” I checked my clipboard, which was mostly for show. I kept the real information in my head. “We’ll be on the Laurel Creek Loop. About four miles, moderate terrain. Lots of stops for wildflower identification.”
She nodded, but I could see the gears turning. She was already calculating which scavenger hunt species she might find on this route. I liked that about her—the way her mind was always two steps ahead, even when she was standing still.
I gave my usual welcome speech to the group, covering trail safety, pace expectations, and what to do if they fell behind. Paisley listened without fidgeting, which put her ahead of about half the group already. The dad with two kids was checking his phone. One of the retirees was adjusting her camera lens. A young couple near the back was taking a selfie with the trailhead sign.
Paisley was watching me, and I was trying very hard not to look like I’d noticed.
We started up the trail in a loose single file, and I fell into the rhythm I always did on these tours—pointing out species, answering questions, keeping an eye on the slower hikers. The Laurel Creek Loop was one of the town’s prettier routes. This time of year, the rhododendron was just starting to bloom alongthe creek banks, and there were patches of trillium in the shaded hollows that made people pull out their phones every ten feet.
Paisley didn’t pull out her phone for the trillium. I assumed she’d already checked those off.
She hung near the middle of the group for the first twenty minutes, which I figured was intentional. She didn’t want to look like she was glued to the guide. But the trail narrowed at the first creek crossing, and everyone bunched up while I helped the family across the stepping stones. Paisley crossed on her own—quick and sure-footed—and ended up beside me on the other side.
“There’s jack-in-the-pulpit along this stretch,” I said, keeping my voice low enough that it was just between us. “Under the hemlocks on the left. Not a scavenger hunt species, but if you’ve never seen them in person, they’re worth a look.”
She glanced where I’d indicated, and her expression changed—a quick flash of genuine delight before she caught herself and went neutral again. “I’ve only seen them in field guides.”
“They’re weird little things. The spathe curls over like a hood. Kids around here call them preacher plants because it looks like someone standing at a pulpit.”
“That’s actually kind of perfect.”
