“No, I forgot them.”
I pull off my Bobcats cap. “Here. This’ll help. It’ll keep the sun out of your eye while it recovers.”
I ruffle my flattened hair. She tracks the gesture, looking almost pained by it.
“I—”
“Take the hat, Faye.”
The use of her first name surprises us both. But she takes the cap and puts it on.
And I nearly swallow my tongue when she reaches back and threads her ponytail through the closure flap.
I grit my teeth against the desire to put more of my clothes on her. I want to see her in my shirts, my hoodies, my flannels. And I want to peel every piece off her afterward and?—
“How does it look?” she asks, adjusting the fit.
Like you’re mine, my brain supplies helpfully.
“Good,” I manage. “Blue and silver suit you.”
“Thanks.”
She smiles, and I’m glad her smiles are for me, too, now. Hell, I might get greedy and want to keep every single one of them for myself.
And if my son’s entire class wasn’t here, I’m not sure I wouldn’t kiss her now.
Propriety be damned.
19
FAYE
Everything is fine.
The children are having fun. The sun is shining through the trees. And Ryder Evans didn’t almost just kiss me. Nuh-uh. Yeah, he cupped my face and stared longingly into my eyes—okay, eye, singular, since the other was out of commission. But nothing happened. And I’m not obsessing over it. I haven’t been thinking about it nonstop. Not at all. Not even a little bit. That my heart still hasn’t returned to its normal rhythm has nothing to do with the gentle pressure of his palm against my jaw or the way his thumb brushed my cheekbone or how his scent—cedar and summer—wrapped around me until I forgot how to breathe. Nope. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.
The last stretch of the hike passes in a blur of chatter and birdsong. We emerge from the trailhead back at the parking lot, where we gather our overnight bags. I make sure everyone is accounted for, then lead them down a narrow asphalt road that winds through the trees to settle in our overnight lodgings. The cabins have dark-brown siding and shallow porches with railings that run straight to the curb, each with the same squat metal grill out front.
We booked two duplex cabins, each sleeping twelve split between two connected six-person units. I pull out my clipboard with the sleeping arrangements I completed last week. As I rattle off names, the kids drag their bags toward their assigned lodging while Ryder helps wrangle the overflow of backpacks.
When the last group is set up in Cabin 19–20, I’m left with two names on my list. Mine. And his.
“You’re in Cabin 18,” I tell Ryder, pointing to the structure on the far right. “I’m in nineteen.”
“I’ll go drop my stuff.” He waves playfully. “Howdy, neighbor.”
It’s great that we are in separate cabins. No sleepovers. We’ll be fifty feet apart tonight. Separated by walls and rules.
Better this way. Even if he weren’t a student’s parent, I don’t know if I’m ready to trust a man again. Ryder tempts me into believing I could. Except I can’t tell if this bubbling want in my chest is real or just my body screaming to be touched after months of being starved of any contact. I’m not even sure which terrifies me more. At least lust burns out fast. Feelings leave scars.
I drop my stuff inside, claiming a single bed, but then leave the kids alone to organize themselves. Ryder must’ve done the same because he’s jogging down the steps of his cabin, hands shoved in his pockets, when I come out. When he sees me, he grins. “You already unpacked?”
“I dropped my bag and let them pick their beds. You?”
“My ears needed a break.”
I laugh. “You learn to tune it out after a while.”
