“Alright then,” Joe said. “It’s a date.”
Her eyes flickered, just for a second, like she’d felt the weight of the word too. He filed that away and sat on the opposite end of the bench as she finished her breakfast.
“Read more last night?” he asked eventually.
She nodded slowly, fingertips tracing idle patterns on Isabel’s diary, which sat beside her on the bench. “Yeah. Before my phone tapped out.”
“Anything interesting?”
Krista hesitated, then shrugged one shoulder. “She wrote about Jonah,” she said. “About how he saw past her hurry, past everything she pretended to be.” Her gaze drifted over the campsite to the tent, the trees, the thin line of lake visible through the trunks. “She said it was terrifying. And that it felt like home.”
He didn’t answer right away. “I guess when someone really sees you,” he said finally, “it can go either way.”
“Either way,” she echoed.
“Either it’s too much and you run,” he said, “or you decide it’s worth staying for.”
He cleared his throat, tipping his chin toward the to-go box. “Anyway, you should finish eating, and then we should go practice snapping some pics before our hike with the Adventure Squad.”
Krista eyed him. “Adventure Squad? That’s what we’re calling ourselves now?”
“Unless you’ve got something better.”
“Mystery Hikers?”
“Too on the nose.”
“Historic Romance Treasure Hunters?”
“Too long,” he said. “Marketing would never approve.”
She laughed, bright and easy. Mornings with her were fast becoming a habit he couldn’t quit. He’d have to, soon enough.
But for now, the day was wide open, and he’d be following Krista wherever she went.
TWENTY-THREE
KRISTA
Saturday, Day Two of the Summer Swap
“Krista and Joe—perfect. Just the two people I wanted to see,” Walt said, stepping off his Polaris Ranger and walking up to their campsite. His jeans were worn, flannel sleeves shoved to his forearms, and heavy work boots dusted with gravel. When he smiled, it crinkled the corners of his eyes under his baseball cap, softening the edges of his rough exterior.
Krista straightened from kneeling by the picnic table, a lens cap in one hand, tripod in the other. Joe was helping her sort through camera gear.
Their campsite, tucked beneath a stand of pines, still smelled faintly of last night’s rain with its wet earth, damp leaves, and the fresh lake air drifting in. On this side of the campground, the rustic sites were quieter, more secluded. No electrical hookups humming in the background. Just bird calls, the distant chop of wood, and Walt’s Ranger rumbling in the background.
“Hey, Gramps,” she said. “What’s up?”
“That storm was a doozy on the north side,” he said,pushing back his cap. “Made a mess of the storm drains. I was hoping you could help me clear the lines ahead of the morning shower rush. You know how those bathrooms get if the pipes are stuck.”
Krista immediately pictured a line of campers—flip-flops, towels, damp hair—waiting for a shower while water raced across the concrete floor. Her shoulders tensed automatically.
“Yeah,” she said, grimacing. “I don’t want to relive the Great Shower Swamp of ’21.”
Joe arched a brow. “That sounds…memorable.”
“That’s one way to describe it,” Krista replied dryly.
