“It wasn’t my finest moment,” Claire explains. “I panicked halfway through and made it worse.”
I glance at her hands, remembering exactly how those fingers felt curled in my shirt. “I’m failing to see the problem.”
Corey points at me. “Thank you. Finally, some professionalism on this trail.”
Claire groans. “Then I said, ‘I can make very stiff peaks.’?”
“And people say romance is dead,” Corey says, smirking way too widely.
“Anyway,” she jumps in. “I doubt any of you actually need pickup lines.”
“None of it matters,” I say. “The only person I need to reach is you, Claire. And the only opinion that keeps me up at night is yours.”
“Aww, that’s so adorable,” Corey says, blowing me kisses.
“Fuck off,” I retort, while Claire’s giggling away.
A fat drop of rain smacks my forehead, then another. In moments, the sky opens up and the rain rushes down in sheets.
Claire squeals, and suddenly we’re all running.
“Move!” Corey shouts out the obvious.
I grab Claire’s hand, and we’re half running, half sliding down the last stretch of muddy trail. Her fingers are slippery in mine, her glasses streaming, and she’s laughing so hard she can barely stay upright. Jakob’s ahead, carving through the rain with the single-minded determination of a man who has played rugby in worse conditions and refuses to let weather be an obstacle.
The parking lot appears before us. Two vehicles in the gravel. I yank open my passenger door, Claire scrambles in, and I sprint around to the driver’s side and throw myself behind the wheel, slamming the door shut.
Rain is hammering the roof, while both of us are soaked through, panting, dripping onto the leather seats.
I grab a towel from the back seat and hand it to her. She dabs her face, pushes her glasses up, and dries herself.
“You are so fucking beautiful,” I say, watching her, still dripping.
The towel pauses against her cheek. “I’ll be honest, I still can’t believe how lucky I am,” she says, and the sincerity in her voice coils around my heart.
She throws me the towel, and I wipe my face and hair in seconds before tossing it into the back. Then I’m leaning across the console toward her, where I cup her jaw with one hand and press my mouth to hers, unable to help myself. She tastes of rain and mountain air and the underneath taste that’s just her, that I’ve become addicted to. The kiss deepens, her hand fisting my soaked shirt, hauling me closer, and I’m burning through denim and common sense. The steering wheel is pressing into my ribs, but I don’t care.
A horn blast rips through the rain.
We jerk apart and stare out at Corey’s truck beside us, his grinning face visible through the rain-streaked window. He gives a thumbs-up. Jakob shakes his head in the passenger seat.
“I’m going to feed them expired ingredients for a month,” I mutter.
Claire giggles, flushed, so I start the engine and pull out of the parking area.
The drive is thirty minutes of warm cabin and drumming rain. Claire’s hand settles on my thigh, and I keep stealing glances at her. The way her lashes dip as exhaustion catches up, and how she burrows into the heated seat.
“When we get back,” I say, “you’re coming over. I’m making you the best chai tea you’ve ever tasted. Cinnamon, cardamom, the whole production.”
“That sounds incredible,” she murmurs. Her eyes flutter as she keeps her attention on me.
I crank the heat higher and drive through the rain. Four weeks ago, I was a man who lived for the camera and convinced himself the performance was enough. Then a woman fogged upher window while watching me bake, and now I can’t get enough of her.
Mistberry Cove materializes through the rain. The harbor lights diffused, the streets quiet, rain turning everything to silver. I pull into our street, then swing into the driveway where Corey’s truck is already parked.
He and Jakob are on the front porch, standing there in the rain with rigid postures, their backs to us, and they’re not alone.
A figure between them. Small, hunched, drenched, arms wrapped around herself. The porch light catches the side of her face, and my chest fills with ice.
