JULIETTE
Nickbroughtmebackto the ridge a little after two.
The jeep rolled to a stop beside the deck, the engine ticking as it cooled—a rhythmic, metallic contraction under the afternoon heat. Dust drifted across the track, lazy and gold, settling into the scrub like it had nowhere else to be.
Nick stepped out first.
His attention moved before his feet did. He swept the ridge line again, the fence, and the tangled tree shadows between the suites. There was nothing hurried about him, but there was nothing loose, either. He operated like a man who expected the landscape to argue with him and had already planned his rebuttal.
Then he looked at me.
I opened my door before he reached the handle. The fabric pulled across the hard line of his shoulder as he leaned against the frame.
“Home in one piece,” he said. The sound skipped my ears entirely and landed somewhere behind my ribs.
I stepped down. The heat of the engine wafted up, but the heat coming off him made concentration briefly unrealistic.
“Dinner’s at seven. I’ll be back at six-fifty.”
Not a suggestion. A schedule. My corporate instincts twitched, but my attention snagged on the way his eyes lingered on my mouth for a fraction of a second too long.
“Is attendance mandatory, Mercer?”
“No.”
“Then I’ll file it as a strongly worded suggestion.”
The corner of his mouth moved. Barely. It was the kind of expression that made me wonder what it would take to turn that twitch into a full-blown smile.
Or a growl.
I turned toward the deck before I started analyzing the "why" behind my own sudden lack of oxygen. The boards creaked under my boots as I crossed to the canvas entrance. The panel shifted against the timber frame, a soft canvas scrape swallowed by the heavy afternoon air. Behind me, the jeep stayed put.
I didn't have to look back to know he was still there. The jeep engine stayed quiet behind me. No door slammed. No gravel moved.
Operational nuisance,I thought, while my pulse quietly betrayed me.
I moved through the canvas entrance into the cool dimness of the suite. The air held the clean weight of linen, warmed timber, and the faint resin of scrub beyond the deck. I set my notebook on the desk, but my feet carried me back to the open panel.
Nick remained beside the jeep, motionless. His gaze moved in slow circuits—ridge, fence, path. One hand rested lightly on the hood, fingers tapping once against the metal. Maybe it was habit, or perhaps a deep-seated need to keep the world in its place.
When the circuit ended, his gaze lifted.
We held eye contact through the opening. A single beat where the professional veneer slipped just enough to show the man underneath. He tipped his chin once—a silent acknowledgment—then climbed back in. Dust followed the vehicle into the trees until he was gone.
The quiet that followed wasn’t empty. It had opinions.
None of them helpful.
The canvas panels stood open, letting the valley’s breath push inside. It was sharp with crushed scrub and the scent of wild things. Far below, two antelope grazed on the slope. They were models of efficiency, heads down, constant motion, no wasted energy.
I watched them, my fingers tracing the edge of my notebook, until standing there felt less like thinking and more like stalling.
A reset, then.
The shower ran until the last of the grit was gone.
Hot water beat against my neck, dissolving the morning’s grit into the drain. The bush had a way of attaching itself to you—skin, hair, the very back of your throat. But the ranger proved harder to rinse away.
