For the first time in the history of mankind, I experience an eerily perfect travel day: we hit all green lights en route to the airport; not only do I fly first class, but there’s an empty seat next to me; my hotel reservation gets upgraded to a luxury corner suite with a fantastic view—and later, when I order room service, they bring me complimentary crème brûlée.
The bed is a heavenly cloud: I sleep like the dead, relishing its comfort for as long as I can before my alarm goes off. Fortunately, I have a good cushion before my driver arrives, and it will take a lot less time to get ready since I only have a few outfits and limited beauty products to choose from.
Abby tried to talk me out of bringing my makeup—and as far as she knows, she succeeded—but I was able to sneak some foundation, eyeshadow, and mascara in with the lip gloss at the last second thanks to a Sephora vending machine in my terminal. I also might have bought a poncho (practical!), some hand sanitizer (diseases don’t go away just because you’re in the woods), a paperback rom-com (both thrillers that sounded good were set in the wilderness, so they were a hard pass),some fancy trail mix (never hurts to have extra snacks, especially when you’re picky), and two old-school disposable Kodak cameras (see: the aforementioned waterfalls).
When I finish getting ready, I look downright rugged in comparison to how I look after my usual routine—but at least my minimal makeup makes me feel a little more prepared to take on this day. I give my naturally wavy hair one last blowout, leaving it long and loose underneath a simple black ball cap.
My driver pulls up precisely on time. We have a long drive ahead until we get to our meeting point, a museum at the edge of Valerie Forest National Park. I lose myself in the rom-com I picked up at the airport; the trip is so quiet and peaceful that I don’t realize how far we’ve gone until I’ve finished the whole book and we’re turning onto a rugged dirt road.
We wind down the road, making our way deeper into the forest, until a scene straight out of a painting appears amid the trees. A small building—more than a cabin, but practically miniature compared to the gigantic trees stretching out all around it—sits in a clearing, dappled sunlight turning green to gold.
My driver idles as I unload my pack from the trunk; his shiny black Mercedes feels entirely out of place here, its smooth lines at odds with the unpolished, natural beauty of everything around us. I tip him well, he heads back out the way we came, and nowIam the only thing at odds with this place.
It’s immediately clear that I’m overdressed, even though I really did try to succeed at the whole practical-but-cute wilderness aesthetic. In retrospect, perhaps my bright white Adidas Ultraboosts were not the best choice—the dirt path has already found its way into the fabric. Also, while my cropped lavender tank and black lululemon tennis skirt feel like they were made for keeping cool during a workout, the roughgrass farther out in the trees tells me I should probably change into a pair of pants.
Not to mention I’m already struggling with my pack, and I haven’t even made it to the museum’s front door—it’s possible I should have given less consideration to the question of how much wouldfitand more to how much I could comfortablycarry.
I’m readjusting it for the third time when I notice him: a guy who looks roughly my age—thirty at themost—standing just outside the museum’s entrance, arms crossed as he leans casually against the door, lips pressed tightly together in what’s clearly an attempt to suppress his laughter.
I’d be furious if he weren’t so alarmingly attractive.
Still, I feel a spike of indignation.
“You could offer to help instead of watching me die this slow death,” I say.
“I didn’t say a word.” He grins, holding his hands up in innocence. “But since you asked for my help—ditch a third of what you’ve packed before we head out. You’ll thank me later.”
I recognize his deep voice immediately: this has to be August Thorn, the same guy who called yesterday while I was with Abby.
I’m not sure what I expected in a wilderness guide, but it wasn’tthis. Maybe I expected someone mid-forties and weathered? Not a guy with lean forearms who looks perfectly adept at—well, everything—and a mop of dark, disheveled curls; not a guy with teeth so white and straight that he looks like he could be an actor posing as a wilderness guide and not someoneactuallyin charge of an expedition like this. He’s wearing a black button-down that makes me think of Jeff Probst, and his blue eyes—
Are one hundred percent aware that I’m checking him out right now.
I adjust my pack again, hoping to distract from the wave of heat that fills my cheeks.
“Thanks for the advice,” I say as he opens the door for me. “You must be August?”
He follows me inside. It’s dark and cool compared to the sunny outdoors, only natural light streaming in through the windows.
“Everyone calls me Thorn, but yeah.”
Thorn. It’s so dramatic I almost laugh.
“Because you’re prickly by nature?”
This makeshimlaugh. “No one has ever called me prickly before.”
“With a name like Thorn? Come on.”
The weight of my pack is suddenly nonexistent on my shoulders; he’s finally decided to help me out a little.
“What do youhavein here?” he asks incredulously, setting it on the floor with a thud. “Did you not get the packing prep FAQ page I sent over?”
I take it back: it’s not cool in here at all. The heat clings to me, suffocating me, especially under the blanket of hair hanging loose against my neck.
“Yes, I got it,” I reply, not quite able to dull the defensive edge to my voice. “I brought all that stuff.”
“But…?”
