He nodded, letting the weight of that settle between them. “Yeah.”
“You’ll be taking over the Hideaway, and I’ll be…attempting to be a travel writer and photographer, living in a tent.”
“You’ll be fine,” he said, and meant it.
She tucked her camera strap over her shoulder, stepping closer. “You don’t think it’s weird?”
“What part?”
“That we’re switching lives. Homes. You’ll be using my shampoo.”
That made him grin. “Figured I’d start with your most expensive body wash.”
Krista laughed as she raised the camera, but her elbow jutted awkwardly, tilting the shot.
Joe stepped behind her. “Here,” he said, voice low. “Let me show you.”
He didn’t touch her right away—just hovered. Then, slowly, his hands came to rest on her arms. His fingers adjusted her grip, thumb brushing theinside of her wrist.
“Keep your elbows tucked. Let the weight of the camera settle into your palm.”
She nodded, her body noticeably still now, except for her breath. He could feel it. Shallow. Hitched. She didn’t lean away.
He dipped his head, speaking near her ear. “Now breathe in…steady. And press the shutter as you exhale.”
The click was soft. The sunrise framed the lake like a painting, mist rising off the water like smoke from a candle.
She lowered the camera but didn’t step out of his space. “You know,” she said quietly, not turning. “If we hadn’t been interrupted last night…”
Joe swallowed. “Yeah?”
Her voice dropped an octave, playful now. “You’d still be thinking about it, put it that way.”
He let out a low laugh, the sound rough with want. “That so?”
Krista finally turned, her braid brushing his chest. Her eyes sparkled, dawn catching the amber in them.
“Mm-hmm,” she said. “But now you’ll just have to imagine it.”
And then she walked past him, slow and smug, like she hadn’t just set his entire body on fire. He watched her go, the light catching the curve of her hips, the sway of those leggings, the casual power of a woman who knew exactly what she was doing.
Yeah.
He’d be imagining it all day. And soon, he’d make it real. No more almost. No more maybe. Just Krista, warm and real, and in his arms.
SEVENTEEN
KRISTA
Friday, Day One of the Summer Swap
By the time Krista reached Joe’s tent, the sun had shaken off the morning mist, gold drifting through the pines in soft, broken patches. Birds called overhead. The air still held a touch of cool, but it wouldn’t last past breakfast.
She hitched her backpack higher and smiled to herself.
He’d looked surprised when she handed him the key. It was a simple metal key on a leather fob, warm from being in her pocket, suddenly significant when she pressed it into his palm.
“Try not to burn the place down,” she’d said, half teasing.
