I take the plates from Gunnar while he opens a cupboard and grabs a rolled-up picnic blanket. He wedges it beneath his free arm, then takes the plates from me once more, ignoring my requests to help carry something. I follow him back outside into the sunny afternoon, and he unravels the blanket beside the creek. We sit on it side by side and tuck into our BLTs, which are more B than anything else—salty and delicious.
“This is really good,” I say, humming with satisfaction.
“Glad you like it.”
The rush of the creek fills the air as we lapse into silence for a moment. I finish my bite of sandwich and chance a glance at Gunnar, studying his handsome profile. It reminds me of when I first saw him, standing side-on with that familiar scowl on his face.
“Have you always lived out here?” I ask, already anticipating his answer.
“Always. Could never live anywhere else.”
“Me neither. I tried city life in Chicago, but it wasn’t for me. Cherry Mountain is home.”
Gunnar nods, asking me about my favorite places on the mountain. The trails, animals, and seasons I like best. It feels good to talk to someone who loves this place as much as I do. Heck, he even seems interested in all my tangents about wildlife biology, asking more about the different species out here.
“I’d love to see a mountain lion one day,” I tell him with a sigh. “I’ve seen plenty of tracks and scratch marks, but never an actual lion.”
“Careful what you wish for.” Gunnar stretches his legs toward the creek, face bathed in sunlight. “I saw one in my twenties. Damn thing went straight for me.”
“You’re kidding!” I stare at him wide-eyed. “Where was it? What did it look like? Do you know if it was an adult or a cub?”
“Was too busy trying not to get my head bitten off to pay much attention.”
“Yeah…I guess that’s fair enough.”
Once we finish our sandwiches, we dig into the cherry pie. It’s from Buttercup Bakery, the best bakery in all of Crave County, and every mouthful is sweet, flaky, and delicious. As we eat, our talk turns to Gunnar’s guided hikes, and I listen eagerly as he tells me all about the worst tourists he’s dealt with. Every time one of his stories draws a laugh from me, I see his mouth tug into the tiniest of smiles, and it makes my chest flutter every time.
We finish the pie, and Gunnar stands up to take our empty plates back inside.
“Thank you for lunch,” I tell him. “It was delicious.”
“Don’t mention it.”
As he takes a step back toward the cabin, a fork slides off one of the plates he’s carrying, falling onto the grass. I move to grab it, but Gunnar gets there first, reaching down. Suddenly, he freezes, sucking in a sharp breath. His face contorts, and I feel a cold splash of concern. He looks like he’s in serious pain, but he pushes through it to grab the fork.
“Gunnar, are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” His voice is tight with pain. “My fault. Shouldn’t have reached out like that.”
He turns away before I can say anything else, carrying the plates back inside the cabin. When he comes back out, he looks a little better, but there’s a tightness in his jaw that wasn’t there before, like he’s trying to hide the discomfort he’s in.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” I ask as he sits down beside me.
“I’m sure,” he says.
But I don’t believe him.
8
GUNNAR
The concernin Everly’s big blue eyes fills me with warmth as we sit together on the picnic blanket, so close our thighs are almost touching. Usually, I can’t stand people looking at me with sympathy. It’s part of why I hated wearing that damn sling for so long.
But it’s different with Everly.
She’s so damn sweet that it’s impossible to be annoyed by her concern. Hell, the only person I’m annoyed with right now is myself. Even after all this time, I still forget my limitations. I move too fast or reach for something I shouldn’t, like I’m still an agile twenty-something instead of a middle-aged man with a bad shoulder.
I’m doing my best to hide it, but shit, it hurts. The muscles have seized up, locking in place, pain shooting all the way down my arm. All because I tried to pick up a stupid fork off the ground.
