Touch my toes. Step outside.
The cottage is perched high enough on a slope to give a full view of the lake, the trees, and the dock stretching out over water that glitters like it’s being filtered. I’m not new to views like this—I am a longtime Star Lake resident, after all. But something about this particular view feels shinier. Sparklier. Better. Like the lake went and got itself a makeover while I was busy knee deep in event permits and wrangling lumberjacks for the festival that ended only days ago.
To my left:Nothing. Just trees. A thick, endless sprawl of pine and maple and oak, humming with fall bugs and the faint whisper of wind rustling through branches. Solitude. Bliss.
To my right: Moonrise at Star Lake. A resort that’s been around for eighty years, but I’ve only ever seen it from the water—a twinkly mirage that feels too close but completely out of my reach. A massage there costs more than I make in a week.
The spa has won awards. The cabins have names like Tranquility and Solstice and Daybreak. The lobby and common areas have a signature scent. I know this because my friend Madison Rodriguez has parents who could afford to go there and once bought a bottle of it for their downstairs bathroom.
Music filters across the yard—guitar, acoustic—and there are fairy lights twinkling in atleastfive separate places on the property.
Magical.
Meanwhile, I’m standing barefoot on a weather-worn dock that smells vaguely like mildew and old sunscreen, clutching a hoodie I bought at a resale shop.
The wind picks up, carrying the faintest trace of lavender and fresh bread—because of course Moonrise would have artisanal things, while I’ve been gnawing on the string cheese I tossed into my cooler, along with leftover granola bars that expired in May.
Still. I’m here.
I’m committed.
This is my week to reset.
I turn, step out of my flip-flops, and make my way back toward the cottage, detouring to the side yard, where the hammock sways between two trees like it’s calling my name. It rocks gently in the breeze, canvas sun bleached and fraying at the edges, but still solid. Trustworthy. A hug from Mother Nature.
I ease into it, careful not to flip myself. The fabric creaks but holds. The sun warms my cheeks. The breeze lifts my hair off my shoulders.
This,I think,is what I came for.
Chapter 2
Maverick
Someone is in my hammock.
Not sitting in it—sleepingin it. Fully, shamelessly sprawled out in the hammock that’s been hung between two trees.
There’s a pink hoodie bunched up like a pillow under her head, one leg kicked out and dangling, a little snore coming out of her mouth that—if I wasn’t so goddamn confused—I might actually find kind of cute.
But Iamconfused.
And it isn’t cute.
I stare down at her, debating my options: Wake her up gently and calmly like a normal human being. Make a ton of noise. Or. Go back inside, pretend this isn’t happening, and let her get eaten by a bear.
She lets out another tiny snore and rolls to her side, one hand flopping off the hammock to join her leg. She’s still deep in it as I catch a glimpse of a tattoo on her wrist—four delicate stars. Simple. Black. For some reason, that makes this whole thing feel weirder. Like she belongs here.
Which she fucking doesn’t.
This ismyhammock.Myrental.
Mysolitude.
I sigh through my nose. Long. Irritated. She doesn’t stir. Of course she doesn’t ... Looks like she doesn’t have a damn care in the world, the trespasser!
I could leave her here until she wakes up. I really could.
I could go back inside and wait patiently, crack open another cold pack for my knee, ignore the fact that a fully grown woman is trespassing on my recovery getaway, and hope she dissolves into thin air. Or goes back into the woods from where she came.
