And when I did, when my hands found the rough fabric of his shirt and my mouth found his, restraint became someone else’s problem.
He tasted like heat and mint, like the bitter edge of restraint finally losing its grip. His hand tightened at the back of my neck, not pulling, only holding, and my fingers fisted in his shirt hard enough to leave a wrinkle.
Every tidy explanation I’d built for this fell apart under his mouth.
The relief scared me more than the wanting.
Wanting him was inconvenient.
Irritatingly physical.
The relief was worse.
Relief meant trust.
Nick pulled back, his thumb tracing the line of my lower lip for one lingering, insanely lethal second.
Somewhere behind us, Owen’s voice rose over the ridge, indignant and completely unaware he had just saved me from making several poor choices near a safety rail.
Nick’s hand left my skin.
His face stayed angled toward mine for one beat longer than professionalism allowed. Then his attention cut past me. Owen. Naomi. Vehicle. All accounted for.
“We’re moving,” he called over his shoulder, his voice steady enough to pass inspection.
I straightened my shirt, my fingers trembling as I gripped the Leica. The place where his thumb had touched my mouth still burned. My internal compass lurched, searching for north and finding nothing steady.
"Coming," I said, my voice surprisingly clear.
I turned back toward the jeep, toward the noise and the logistics and the five sisters who were currently thousands of miles away, blissfully unaware that the woman who always knew the next move had just run out of marked road.
My spine straightened before I could stop it. Sleeves adjusted. Hair smoothed. A polite, neutral expression settled into place, the kind that said nothing to see here and meant absolutely none of it.
Steady. Functional. Breathe. Get it back, Juliette.
I turned back toward the jeep. By the time my boot hit the gravel, the mask had settled.
Then Nick glanced back, and the performance caught at the seams.
The ridge hadn’t taken anything from me.
It had only removed the noise long enough for me to hear what I wanted.
Chapter 16
Recognition
JULIETTE
Thedrivebacktothe lodge was an exercise in sensory compartmentalization.
In the backseat, the bickering had pivoted from satellite dead zones to the far more volatile subject of the lunch menu. Owen was mid-soliloquy on the structural integrity of a proper club sandwich, while Naomi countered with a scathing critique of the lodge’s choice of artisanal mustard. Their voices blurred into high-frequency static that never reached the front of the cabin.
Club sandwiches. They’re arguing about mayonnaise. I’m sitting three inches from a tectonic shift, and Owen is worried about the bread-to-protein ratio.
Nick's weight shifted with every uneven cut in the track, the movement traveling through the chassis and into my skin. Hisforearm flexed against the wheel, a steady anchor against the jolts that made my own breath jagged and uncoordinated.
When we finally pulled up to the main lodge, the engine shut off, and the lodge sounds rushed in to fill the space.
