Chapter 3
Luke
After quickly and efficiently setting up my campsite—strategically located near the trail that leads to the biggest known patch of alpine-parsley within the park—I hike to the nearby creek, hoping to catch a couple fish for dinner. The rapidly flowing water looks dangerous, so I abort that plan and just relax on the bank next to the creek. I should probably be scouting my stakeout location up the mountain, but instead I relax in the cool grass. Despite chugging that Lofty coffee, the soothing sound of rushing water makes my eyelids droopy. Still tired from the early morning flight, I drift off...
Clang! The sound of metal hitting metal instantly wakes me. The noise brings back memories from when my family used to go camping when I was a kid. Whenever someone was setting up or breaking down their tents, the poles clanged together, making this same noise. Fortunately, the tent I purchased has carbon fiber poles, which are lightweight, strong, and durable, plus they don’t make that annoying noise when you hit them together.
I’m a little perturbed at the fact that someone is camping in a site very near mine. In addition to my site being near the trail to the alpine-parsley, it’s also a bit separated from the busier part of the campground. Its secluded nature was perfect to help me better notice suspicious activity leading towards the trail. And now whoever is setting up camp next to me could distract me from my quarry. I leap to my feet and stride back to the campground. I’ll give this camper a hand setting up their tent—to end that annoying noise—and politely ignore them for the rest of my visit. Unless they happen to be an alpine-parsley poacher .
When I round the bend, I spot a cherry red VW bug parked next to my Jeep. A heap of camping gear lies scattered on the ground where a French bulldog is perched, watching the proceedings. My feet skid to a stop and my eyes pop open as I recognize the new camp visitor .
The beautiful barista is struggling to construct an older model tent on her campsite. She balances heavy-duty old-fashioned steel poles and fits them together, slipping them into the flaps of the tent. Then when she tries to raise the canvas, the poles snap apart, clang together, and everything falls in a pile at her feet.
“Dang it!” she mumbles, then blows out a breath, causing her bangs to billow. She wipes her brow with her hand, repeats the process, and gets the same result.
Clang! Yap! Clang! Yap! Clang! Yap!
I couldn’t hear the small dog’s barks over the roar of the creek, but the chubby critter whose ears are too big for his head dances in a circle and yaps every time the poles clang together. Chuckling at the entertaining sight, my heart takes an unexpected flip when the woman bends over in those tight blue jeans. Wowza! That instant attraction I felt at the Coffee Loft flares back to life. I shake my head, trying to squash the feelings. Insta-love is just as bad as instant coffee. And besides, there’s nowhere this relationship could go since I don’t live here.
“Would you like any help?” I say in an overly loud voice as I approach.
Kaylee jumps, spins, and faces me with her hand over her heart. “Oh, my goodness! You startled me,” she says. Her expression morphs from one of fright to pleasure when she recognizes me. “Hottie Mountain Man?” She bites her lip as if she didn’t mean to say that out loud.
The dog rushes towards me, barking like a dog three times his size. He stands in front of his mistress, his entire body quivering, ready to defend her honor.
“Quiet, Elizabeth Taylor! He’s not going to hurt us,” Kaylee says to the bulldog. The beast quits barking but continues to snarl at me as she stands guard. I stifle a laugh at the dog’s unwieldy name.
Bowing, I say, “Hottie Mountain Man at your service.”
Her face and neck turn beet red. “I was hoping you hadn’t heard that,” she mutters .
I take a couple cautious steps closer, lest Elizabeth Taylor decide to take a chunk out of my leg. “It works better if you have two people to set up one of these things,” I say, pointing to the tent.
Kaylee grins sheepishly and nods towards my campsite. “Looks like you didn’t need any help with your tent,” she observes.
“Mine is one of those modern pop-up dome models where you flick your wrist and the thing springs to life as if by magic,” I say with an apologetic laugh.
“Well mine is apparently one of those old, clunky models that refuses to go up no matter how many times you connect the darn poles together,” she grumbles.
“Yours is rather, er, vintage,” I say, staring at the mass of canvas and tent poles lying at her feet. I’ve never constructed a canvas tent myself but have certainly seen a few set up in campgrounds, so obviously it can be done.
The Frenchie stays put when I move closer, so I grab several of the poles, motioning for Kaylee to do the same. “ It’s all about balance and finesse,” I brag as I connect the poles, then slip them into the tent flaps. She does the same, and after I slip in the last pole, we raise the heavy canvas. When we each release our sides, the poles spring apart and the whole thing crumbles at our feet like a house of cards.
Clang! Yap! Clang! Yap! Clang! Yap!
Arching an eyebrow, Kaylee says, “What were you saying about balance and finesse?”
“Um, well...” my voice trails off in embarrassment. I take a fortifying breath. “Let’s try again.” Surely our second joint attempt will succeed. We repeat the process, this time slowly removing our hands one finger at a time from the tenuously connected poles. I hold my breath for good luck.
Clang! Yap! Clang! Yap! Clang! Yap!
Putting my hands on my hips, I scowl at the crumpled parts. “Does this thing come with any instructions?” I grumble.
Kaylee giggles and rummages through the packing bag. “Here,” she says, handing me a worn inch-thick instruction booklet that looks like it’s gone through a war. It falls open to Page 33, showing the thirty-seven steps for constructing the tent. Groaning to myself, I start to read.
~*~
Forty-five minutes and three more attempts later, the tent is standing. I quickly pound in the ground stakes, pulling the attachment cables taut, which will hopefully also help keep the poles from springing apart. Plus, the stakes should keep the monster tent anchored, even during a windstorm.
Kaylee flips open the front flap and crawls inside. Her head pops back out a few seconds later. “This tent is huge! But it smells a little musty,” she says, wrinkling her nose.
Bending over, I peer inside. She’s right, the tent is giant compared to mine. It’s like Kaylee has a three-bedroom apartment and I have a studio. “Wow! You won’t be cramped in here.” Pointing to the zippers in the canvas sides, I say, “You’ll probably want to open a few of those flaps to get some cross airflow. ”
Grinning, she crawls around doing as I suggest. Her blue jeans hug her backside in a most attractive fashion—not that I peeked or anything. Seconds later a cool breeze flows through the tent. “Much better,” she says, sitting cross-legged, grinning, and glancing around the tent like an interior decorator. Is she debating the placement of her sleeping bag or Elizabeth Taylor’s doggie bed?
I retreat and she crawls out. Extending a hand, I help her to her feet. I’d forgotten how tall she is. I usually look at the top of a woman’s head, but with Kaylee, she looks me square in the eye.
“I’ll let you settle in,” I say, taking a couple steps back, intending to flee to my campsite. This woman is a distraction I don’t need, and it’s time to focus on work and not the pretty brunette.
“Thanks for the help! I’d never have gotten this thing up without you.” Her pretty smile hits me in the solar plexus, and my heart begs me not to retreat to my campsite. I have a feeling my new neighbor is going to be hard to ignore .
“You’re welcome,” I say, this time walking away, albeit somewhat reluctantly.
“What’s your name? I can’t believe we set up a tent together and we don’t know each other’s names,” she says in a rush, as if she’s also reluctant for me to leave. “We should probably know middle names and birthdates after that grueling experience,” she adds with a laugh.
Pleased to have an excuse to stop walking away, I turn to face her again and point to my chest. “Luke Anthony Fieldstone. Also known as Hottie Mountain Man.”
Rolling her eyes, she says, “You’re never going to forget I said that, are you?”
Chuckling, I say, “Nope.”
“Birthdate?” she says.
My eyes widen. I thought she was kidding, but apparently she was not. “March 5, 1999.”
She points to her chest. “Kaylee Loretta Zimmer,” she says in a shy tone. “I don’t usually share my middle name, but you earned it. My mom’s a big country music fan,” she adds .
I nod, then arch an eyebrow as I wait. She stares at me for a second, then says, “Oh! Right! I forgot! October 15, 2001.”
Surprised that I’m only two years older than her, my lips engage before my brain and I blurt out, “You look so much younger than that.”
Kaylee shrugs. “Everyone says that.”
Thankfully my tactless comment didn’t insult her. “I already knew your name, from your nametag at the coffee shop,” I rush to add before she can dwell on my thoughtless comment. “Not the secret middle name part, of course. Being named after Loretta Lynn is cool. My mom is a big Johnny Cash fan.” Taking a breath from my rambling, I snap my lips together in case I provide my height, weight, and complete family history. I’m usually not this talkative, but something about Kaylee apparently makes me babble.
With an awkward salute, I add, “It’s nice to formally meet you, Kaylee Loretta Zimmer.” Forcing my feet to continue towards my tent, I stride off .
“What are you doing for dinner?” she yells when I’m halfway across the grass that divides our sites.
Slowly turning back towards her, I admit, “I was going to catch some fish, but that didn’t happen. I’ll probably eat a cold sandwich.”
She’s scoops up her little curiously named dog, who was whining at her feet, and smiles at me. Her presence feels like a ray of sunshine on a cloudy day. If I’m not careful, I’m going to fall for this woman.
“Elizabeth Taylor and I are going to cook weenies over an open fire. That is, if we can get a fire started,” she says with a laugh. “Care to join us?”
“You just want me for my fire-starting skills,” I tease.
“Maybe,” she teases back.
“What time is this feast happening?” I ask.
“Give me an hour to set up and then come on over.”
“No handling any matches without me!” I toss over my shoulder as I continue to my site. Her tinkling laughter fills the air, and I already can’t wait to eat dinner with her. I try to convince myself it’s just because I don’t want to eat a cold sandwich.
My heart is unconvinced.