“Ready?” he asked.
I reached for my notebook. The leather was scuffed, its edges softened from a week of grit and heat. I tucked it under my arm like a shield.
“Yes.”
He waited while I stepped past him. He didn’t move to widen the path. His shoulder stayed inches from mine, and somehow that was worse than being touched.
Outside, the morning had sharpened. I followed him toward the jeep, my boots crunching over the dry earth. He opened the passenger door, a silent fact of our daily choreography, and I climbed in.
“You’re behind schedule,” I said. It was a reflex, the only survival instinct I had left that still functioned under pressure.
“I’m never behind schedule, Wilder.” He shifted into gear, the tires spitting gravel as we pulled away from the suite. “I’m not rushing you.”
Acacia trees blurred past the window, a smear of gold and thorn. Nick drove with one hand on the wheel, his attention moving between the track, the radio, and the ridge line. Every few seconds, it came back to me.
A little more than a day remained. One final rotation of the earth before the world expected me to step back into it as though South Africa had been a temporary deviation.
He didn’t drive straight to the main entrance. He banked the jeep left toward the staff quarters and pulled up in front of a corrugated-roof cabin, leaving the engine idling.
“Two minutes,” he said, already stepping out. “I need a clean shirt.”
He looked back, just once, leaving the choice to me.
I stayed in the passenger seat. The screen door groaned on its hinges as he disappeared inside, a rusted, practical sound cutting through the low vibration of the engine. His porch held a single chair and a pair of worn boots, the wood scent of a small stack of firewood tangling with the morning air. A chipped ceramic mug sat on the rail beside topography maps weighted with a smooth stone—a space with no excess, no performance, and nothing arranged for anyone else’s comfort.
Everything could be packed, carried, or left behind.
Nick came back in a crisp olive uniform, the ranger patches stiff at his shoulders. He rolled his sleeves as he climbed in,bringing woodsmoke and mint that replaced the musk of the suite.
“Still with me?” he asked, his hand hovering over the gear shift.
My fingers tightened around the notebook in my lap. “For one more day.”
The corner of his mouth shifted, but his eyes stayed on mine. Then he put the jeep in gear.
We pulled into the lodge’s gravel circle, the veranda already bright with coffee cups, linen napkins, and people pretending the morning belonged to them.
My hand went to my collar in one smoothing pass. My spine straightened before anyone could notice it had slipped.
I had twenty-four hours left, and no strategy for leaving a man who had made staying feel possible.
Chapter 19
A Controlled Pour
JULIETTE
Nicksteppedoutofthe jeep first.
He didn't look back immediately, but he paused beside the passenger door long enough for me to climb down without making it look like assistance. The distinction mattered. Apparently, after yet another night of having my entire nervous system rearranged by a ranger with excellent hands and unacceptable emotional timing, I had become a woman who required subtlety from her exits.
His hand stayed near the door frame while I stepped onto the gravel. He didn’t touch me. He didn’t need to. The space between his knuckles and my hip had its own weather system.
“Eyes up, Wilder,” he said quietly.
I looked at him.
His expression gave nothing away to the veranda, the staff, or the CEOs pretending not to watch from behind coffee cups. His gaze held mine for one clean second, steady enough to put a hand under every loose piece of me.
