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“Prue will love it.” He looks at me, and his amber eyes are warm and certain, the way they always are when he’s already decided. “Everybody who stands on this rock is going to see what you saw. They should know who saw it first.”

Oh, wow. I don’t have a single comeback for that.

Temporary. The word sits in my mouth like a lemon pip. My posting ends on the last day of September, which is seven weeks away.

I used to count down to the end of every contract like it was Christmas. When did I start counting the other way?

I don’t know. But I know where I’d like to be standing when this deck gets built, and it’s right here, with him.

I don’t cross it out again. I just roll up the plans before he can see my face.

“If we weren’t on the clock,” he says quietly, “I would kiss you right now.”

I tuck the plans under my arm. “Then it’s a good thing we’re professionals.”

“Very good thing.” He stands, and his shadow covers me completely. “Clock stops at five.”

I check my watch. It’s four twenty-two.

Most nights this week, I’ve ended up on Holt’s porch.

He sits on the top step with his knife and a block of basswood, and I curl up in the rocking chair with my laptop and the trail budget and my feet in his lap. Every few minutes, he stops carving to rub his thumb along the arch of my foot, without even looking. I don’t think he knows he’s doing it.

I’m not going to tell him. I’m not an idiot.

The budget is behaving. Dale’s quote is fair, and the county crew is free. For the first time since I got to Screaming Woods, every line on my spreadsheet is green, and the man beside me is humming under his breath while he carves.

Gah. I could get used to this.

Holt’s phone buzzes on the porch rail, and he frowns at it like it’s a wasp. He has the oldest phone in the county, and he treats it with deep suspicion.

“Brody,” he says.

“What does he want? Is it poker night?”

“He says we’re famous.” He squints at the screen. “What’s a ‘For You page’?”

I sit up so fast the laptop nearly slides off my knees. “Give me that!”

He hands it over. Brody has sent a link, a pair of eyes, and a fire emoji.

I tap the link.

It’s the Visit Screaming Woods account, which belongs to the tourism office. James runs it.

The first photo is the north loop gate, with the big red CLOSED sign wired to the bars. Holt has one hand flat on the gate, filling the whole frame, huge and green and scowling up the trail.

I’m standing next to him in my ranger shirt with my purple hair blowing across my face and my lip ring catching the sun. We’re both looking back up the hill, like we’re guarding a crime scene.

I remember this. It was the day we walked James back down from the slide, and I heard two shutter clicks behind us at the gate.

I swipe to the second photo.

It’s the moment after. I’m mid-sentence, waving one hand at the hill, and Holt is looking down at me. He’s looking at me the way I look at the last pancake on the plate.

“Oh no,” I whisper.

The caption says: Our rangers won’t tell us what’s behind this gate. Find out at the Harvest Festival. #HiddenWonders #ScreamingWoods #OrcRanger