After a moment, something in her expression shifted. Softened.
“Why do you care?” she asked quietly. “You don’t even know me.”
That was the part I couldn’t explain yet—not without sounding like I’d lost my mind. I’d known this woman for less than a day. I had no business caring whether she scrambled up a dangerous ridgeline alone.
Except I did.
I cared with a certainty that felt older than eighteen hours. Older than yesterday’s booth conversation. As if something in me had been waiting and finally recognized what it was looking for.
“The tour finishes in about an hour,” I said instead. “After that, I promised you a bypass around the Blackrock washout. If you want, I can show you some of the harder species locations while we’re up there. The safe routes to reach them.”
“And the pink lady’s slipper?”
I looked at her—really looked at her—standing at the railing with the valley behind her and sunlight catching the flyaway strands of hair at her temples. The wind lifted a piece free, and she brushed it back absently.
I wanted to tell her I’d show her every wildflower on this mountain. I’d show her the hidden meadow I’d never taken anyone to. I’d show her whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted, for as long as she’d let me.
“Let’s start with Blackrock,” I said. “And see where it goes from there.”
She turned back to the view, and I watched her profile against the skyline—the set of her jaw, the focus already shifting inward as she recalculated her route.
I didn’t know what she was chasing. But I knew, with the kind of certainty that settles into your bones and doesn’t leave, that I wanted to be next to her while she chased it.
The group was reassembling behind us. I heard the dad calling for his kids. Heard one of the retirees asking about lunch options back in town. Normal tour sounds. Normal morning.
Nothing about this morning was normal.
Not for me.
Not anymore.
3
PAISLEY
The group tour ended at the trailhead parking lot. Same place it started.
People milled around thanking Evan, asking follow-up questions about species they’d photographed and swapping restaurant recommendations. The dad with two kids looked relieved to be heading back to his car. One of the retirees pressed a twenty-dollar tip into Evan’s hand, and he tried to give it back before she waved him off.
I stood near the edge of the lot, pretending to check my phone while I waited for the crowd to thin. Hartley had texted me a photo of herself and Brooklyn eating waffles at the Pancake House with the captionwish you were here instead of sweating on a mountain. I smiled and pocketed my phone without replying.
When the last car pulled out of the lot, it was just us.
Evan walked over, slinging his pack higher on one shoulder. “Still up for Blackrock?”
“That’s why I’m standing here.”
One corner of his mouth twitched before he reined it in. I was starting to recognize the pattern—the almost-smile, like giving in fully would reveal something he wasn’t ready to share.
“Trailhead’s about a ten-minute drive,” he said. “We can take my truck.”
His truck was a beat-up pickup with mud caked on the wheel wells and a Wildwood Ridge Outfitters decal on the tailgate that was starting to peel at the corners. The passenger seat had a thermos wedged between it and the center console, and the floor mat was dusted with dried mud and pine needles. It smelled like him—pine and coffee.
“Sorry about the mess,” he said as I climbed in.
“I’ve seen worse.”
I hadn’t, actually. But the state of his truck didn’t bother me. It looked like a vehicle that was used for actual work, not for showing off.
