“Four days on the Roma Trail,” I say, bracing myself for a grimace or arched eyebrow.
“Pretty this time of year. Watch for moose. Mean suckers.” She pulls an index card from a drawer and slides it toward me along with a ballpoint pen. “I’ll need your info for the locker. You going in alone?”
I nod.
She gives me a closer look and then returns my nod. “Sometimes you need that.”
“Yeah,” I agree, sounding breathless.
“If you want dinner, there’s a bar across the street with decentburgers and the best fries in town. It’s a popular final meal spot.” She laughs when I flinch. “I don’t mean final like death row. Just until you get back to civilization.”
“Right.” I do my best to return her smile. “Thanks.”
I give her the completed card, and she hands me a small metal key. I walk to the lockers along the far wall, shove my phone inside number twenty-three, then close it quickly before I’m tempted to turn it on and get sucked back into the well-meaning barrage of concern my people specialize in.
I didn’t bother telling my parents about this trip. They’re in Morocco or Greece or some other dig site for their annual summer research trip. Who knows if they’d get my text, let alone respond. I spent too many years putting myself out there, only to be benignly neglected in return. It took a while, but I made peace with what my parents can and won’t give. Skylark is my home now, filled with people who love me, and I know I’m worthy of that love.
My hands shake slightly as I step into the cooling evening and glance up at the mountains that surround this tiny gateway town, already bathed in shadows. I’m really doing this. And yeah, I’m scared, but that’s okay. Fear and I have become good buds over the past year.
I turn to cross the street, then pull up short when a man steps into my path, blood suddenly rushing from my head. He’s tall and long-limbed, with the same dark hair as Jensen. My body goes into a ridiculous fight-or-flight response that has nothing to do with the fear of being alone on the trail, or pushing my body to its limit, or any legitimate threat.
“Excuse me, ma’am. Didn’t see you there.”
Ma’am.Right.
I manage to smile at the polite stranger wearing a Carhartt jacket before continuing toward the bar. On closer inspection, he doesn’t look like Jensen. His jaw isn’t as strong, his eyes aren’t that storm-surge gray, and his voice doesn’t feel like warm honey across my skin.
It’s crazy to think of Jensen following me to Montana anyway. Not with how I kicked him out of the bookstore. Sure, he told me he’d stick around Skylark in case I changed my mind, but I don’t believe that. He’s probably back in Nashville right now, charming some woman he met at a random bar. If there’s one thing I know for sure, charm comes as naturally to Jensen Grant as breathing does to the rest of us.
Running away (again) was cowardly. Still, there’s living with fear, and then there’s setting yourself up to be completely ruined. I might want to reclaim my wild, impulsive self, but I know the difference between taking a risk and stepping straight into heartbreak.
7
JENSEN
It’s almostnine at night, and I’ve spent the last hour reading the same page of a book over and over while not compulsively checking my phone, which is sitting face-down on the nightstand. Cody’s sprawled across the other bed, flipping channels from his nest of Skittle wrappers. The kid has the attention span of a gnat and a wicked sweet tooth.
We both freeze as a soft knock sounds against the door.
“Holy shit,” Cody mutters as he scrambles off the bed like he’s been nudged with a cattle prod, candy wrappers flying. “She’s here, Jensen,” he whispers in his non-inside voice. “She came.”
Heart pounding, I cross to the desk chair and grab the T-shirt I threw there earlier.
“Don’t put a shirt on.” He points a finger at me. “The bare-chested thing works in your favor.”
“I’m putting a shirt on,” I tell him. “You should, too.”
“Oh, yeah,” he agrees, rifling through his duffel bag. “If it’s her, I’m getting the hell out of here. You know the sock-on-the-doorknob trick, right?”
“Cody, I want to talk to her. I’m not planning on seducing her in a room that smells like pizza and your fancy-ass body wash.”
“Maybe she wouldn’t have ghosted you if you smelled better.”
“Maybe you could shut your fucking mouth.”
He rolls his eyes as I move toward the door, trying to breathe normally, which is harder than it sounds because every nerve in my body is vibrating toward the woman on the other side. Cody and I have a flight booked out of Denver tomorrow morning, so I’ve spent the entire evening convincing myself I don’t care that she’s shutting me out. One knock has unraveled that lie like it was tied by a toddler.
Please, sweet baby Jesus, let it be her, I think as I paste a not-deranged smile on my face and open the door.
