“BUTT-FART-POOPY!” someone yells, and that sets everyone off again.
Faye scowls at me while still smiling.
I wipe my eyes. “I regret nothing.”
“Of course you don’t.”
Eventually, we get the kids calmed down enough to continue. They’re still giggling as we walk, repeating the words to each other and cracking up all over again.
The path winds through thick forest, the river gurgling beside us. Birds call from the trees. Somewhere in the distance, a woodpecker hammers away.
We’re nearing the end of the trail when Faye stops, yelping. Her hand flies up to cover her left eye.
“Miss Rose?” a girl asks, concerned. “Are you alright?”
I push forward through the line of children. “What’s wrong?”
“Something—” Her voice is tight with discomfort. “A bug flew into my eye.”
“Okay, everyone, gather around,” I say, using my best authoritative dad voice. “Nice and tight. Walking buddies hold hands.”
The kids obey, forming a close circle on the trail. With all heads accounted for, I can focus on Faye.
I move in front of her, gently pulling her hand away from her face. Her eye is watering, red and irritated. She’s blinking frantically to dislodge whatever’s stuck.
“Do you see it?” she asks.
“Hold still.”
I dig into my backpack and pull out a travel pack of tissues and my water bottle. I wet a tissue, then step closer.
Without thinking, I cup her face with one hand, tilting it toward the light filtering through the trees.
Her skin is soft under my palm.
Focus, Evans.
I use the damp tissue to wipe her eye. “Blink,” I instruct.
She does.
“Do you still feel it?”
“I… I don’t think so.” She blinks a few more times. “No. It’s gone.”
“Good.”
I brush my thumb across her cheekbone on instinct.
This is how I’d hold her if I were about to kiss her. With my hand cradling her jaw, thumb stroking her skin, her face tilted up toward mine. All I’d have to do is lean in. Close the distance. Find out if her lips are as soft as they look.
But we’re in the middle of a state park with twenty-two children watching.
I drop my hand and take a step back.
Faye’s eye is still red, irritated from the bug. She blinks, wincing.
“Do you have sunglasses?” I ask, voice matter-of-fact, out of sync with the pulse in my throat.
