Chapter 4
Chapter Four
VICTORIA
T wo weeks later, I’m driving to the Blue Ridge Astronomical Institute, a research facility that’s on a mountaintop nestled deep in the National Forest. Approaching it feels like going into some secret government facility that isn’t supposed to officially exist. Just a few hours’ drive from Jasmine Falls, it’s not truly in the middle of nowhere. Not completely. It’s twenty minutes from the nearest town, but after winding up the mountain on a narrow two-lane road for what seemed like a hundred years, it feels like I’m in a remote location best suited for a horror movie.
When the road turned to gravel, I was certain I was lost—but then it emptied into a clearing with a cluster of buildings arranged like a tiny college campus. To my left is the ring of radio telescopes, all pointing in the same direction. One has a smiley face painted on the inside, grinning up toward whoever might be watching from above.
Another narrow paved road carries me past a group of 1950s-era buildings made from concrete and glass. At their center is a wide meadow with a small pond and a walking trail. Two wood-shingle cabins are to my right, nestled in the evergreens.
My online snooping taught me that the institute has a dozen researchers who work here full time with state-of-the-art labs and observatories. Plus six radio telescopes that are the pride of the Southeast. When the cabins aren’t being used by camps like the College of Charleston’s, they’re used by visiting scientists from around the world.
I park my small SUV next to one of the cabins, where there’s a hand-painted welcome sign made of poster board taped to a folding table. A black pickup truck and a red mini Cooper are parked nearby, both covered in dust from the gravel road.
All around me is lush green: the trees, the grass, the broad-leafed shrubs. Massive evergreens seem to stretch a mile above the clusters of laurel and rhododendron at their feet. Jasmine Falls is in the Lowcountry, close enough to the coast to have Spanish moss in the trees and a hint of brine in the air. Here, the air is crisp and cool, not heavy and humid like it is back home. Overhead, one puffy cloud floats in a sky that’s a striking shade of Carolina blue.
The buildings look dated, but the view behind them takes my breath away. Beyond the giant firs and pines, the mountains are undulating tones of blues and greens, as vast and serene as the ocean.
A rabbit hops out of the brush near me, just as the sun passes from behind a cloud and illuminates the bright green of the meadow.
“Okay, now you’re just showing off,” I say to the sky and head toward the nearest cabin. But I can’t deny the spark of joy that warms my chest. The thrill of starting over.
“Hello,” I call, stepping inside. There’s a kitchenette and a lounge area by the front door, a long hallway extending beyond. The interior looks like it hasn’t seen an update in about fifty years, and smells musty in that way that old libraries do. The walls are a mix of dark paneling and off-white paint, and the chunky dorm-like furniture looks about as comfortable as granite.
“Oh, hi,” a voice chirps. “You made it.”
A young Black woman, twenty-two at most, strides toward me and extends her hand for me to shake. “I’m Sophie. The admin. You must be Victoria.” She’s a couple of inches taller than me, lean with bright eyes that crinkle at the corners when she flashes me a warm smile. “We’re just getting settled in the office and going over some ideas for the week. Did you get lunch on the way? The cafeteria made us to-go boxes, so I have one for you, too.” She shoves a handful of braids over her shoulder, and I note that several are purple. She has the cool-counselor vibe, big-time.
“Thank you,” I say. “That’d be great.”
“Your room’s this way,” she says, leading me down the hallway. “It’s not fancy, but it’s semi-private. You’re at the one end of the building, and I’m on the other. In theory, that means we can keep a better eye on the kiddos.”
“How long have you been doing this?” I ask.
She turns the corner and grins. “This is my third year as an admin. But I came to these camps as a student, years ago.” She’s practically glowing, like this is her happy place.
“Wow,” I say, already feeling out of my depth. The hallway also looks like a dorm, with signs on the doors that have the campers’ names written in marker, decorated with stickers and glitter. At the end of the hallway, Sophie stops at a door that has an identical sign with my name on it. She leads me inside, pointing out the basics—the bath, the switches for the lights over the bed, the baseboard heater under the window.
“Rustic, but cozy,” she says. “I sleep like a baby here.”
Rustic is a generous term. Fallout-shelter-chic is more like it.
“There’s extra bedding in the closet here,” Sophie says. “Plus some blankets. A first-aid kit’s on the desk there, and a flashlight. It gets pitch-black out here at night, so don’t go without your flashlight.”
“Got it,” I say.
“The kids start coming in tomorrow morning at eleven,” she says. “Airport shuttles start rolling in earlier, but everyone should be here by five p.m. We’ll have some informal activities tomorrow as the kids arrive and then orientation after dinner.”
I check my phone for the time and see there’s no service.
Sophie nods and says, “You won’t get much of a signal out here. There’s a landline in each cabin, and you’re welcome to share that number with anyone who might need to reach you.”
“Oh,” I breathe. Three weeks with no cell service?
“It’s amazing,” she says, as if reading my horrified expression. “You can leave the whole world behind when you come here. Just us and the animals and the stars.” She says this with absolute glee while my stomach clenches like a fist.
Sophie is clearly a Very Outdoorsy Person. Everything about her screams wilderness, from her navy camp-style shirt that has buttons everywhere—on the chest pockets, above the elbows, on little straps that hang below the rolled cuffs—to her sleek hiking pants that are a cross between leggings and cargo pants with zipper pockets on either side. She smells like citronella and has the kind of muscular thighs one earns by climbing over boulders and biking uphill.
Sophie looks right at home in this place. She doesn’t seem one bit concerned about bears, rockslides, or falling into a nest of venomous snakes and not being able to use a cell phone to call for rescue.
I shift in my sandals, thinking that my knit skirt and tank top aren’t the wisest choice in clothing. Sophie’s wearing hiking boots that look like they could carry her right over Everest—and she’s here as the lead admin. From what Roxy told me, Sophie’s job is mostly mission control, keeping the whole operation running smoothly from behind the scenes.
“This session’s going to be awesome,” she says, and I do admire her enthusiasm. So far, this place’s vibe is like Friday the 13 th meets Real Genius , and I’m not sure which part of that is more unsettling. It’s not hard to imagine these genius children pulling some A-level pranks on me—or to imagine any number of threatening creatures lurking out in the woods, waiting to jump out and eat me for dinner. Either way, I’m squarely out of my element, and the urge to run back to my car and drive down the mountain is strong.
But I won’t do that because I can’t let Roxy down. I keep my word, and I can do hard things. I’ve handled clients who were meaner than rabid raccoons, for heaven’s sake—this should be a cinch. It’s only three weeks, I tell myself. You can do anything for three measly weeks.
I take a deep breath, willing myself to relax. But everything in my chest stays wound tight like a spring that’s ready to pop.
“Why don’t you get your things inside and get settled,” Sophie says. “And then we can all meet up to talk about tomorrow’s orientation—say in twenty minutes?”
“Sounds great,” I say, forcing myself to sound chipper.
She gives me a thumbs-up and heads back down the hallway, her boots thumping against the ancient linoleum.
Even her footsteps are confident.
I massage the knot forming near my shoulder, where it always appears when I’m anxious, and open the blinds at my window. My room is on the back side of the building, and because of the steep hillside below, I’m looking straight into the treetops. My new home is a box of wall-to-wall wood paneling that’s just big enough to hold a dresser, a small desk, a single-sized bed, and a chair made from molded plastic. Made up with pale blue linens and a thin coverlet, the bed looks like it belongs in an old motel. And when I sit on it, the springs make an ungodly screeching sound. Far from fancy, but I’ve stayed in worse—mainly in college, when taking road trips with friends meant staying in the cheapest places we could find.
The tiny bathroom has plain white fixtures and dove-gray linoleum. The only spot of color is a set of mint-green towels that feel like sandpaper. But the room is clean, and there are even tiny hotel-sized bar soaps and a small vase with a cluster of laurel and honeysuckle. Someone’s made an effort to make this room feel cozy—probably Sophie. After splashing some cold water on my face, I run my fingers through my hair to tame the frizz and head outside to unload my car.
As I open the back door and set my first bag on the ground, a deep voice says from behind me, “Hey there. Need a hand with those?”
When I turn towards the voice, I immediately feel like someone’s knocked the wind out of me because—no. Just no .
My mouth falls open as the man standing in front of me arches a brow and puts his hands on his hips, staring at me as if he, too, can’t believe his eyes. Finally, he speaks again in that familiar drawl that rumbles along my spine and turns my knees to jelly.
“Victoria,” he says.
I blink a few times, stunned into silence, because this can’t be. I know those warm hazel eyes, that tousled dark hair, and that roguish grin—they belong to someone I thought I’d never see again. My chest tightens, and my heart pounds so hard my ears tingle. Is it too late to climb back into my car and leave? I give myself a sharp pinch on the wrist because surely I’m dreaming.
Ouch. I rub the spot on my wrist where the skin is thin and tingling. Not dreaming.
“Noah,” I wheeze, because no other words will come out. My brain is a tangle of thoughts, but none of them explain why Noah Valentine is standing three feet in front of me, on top of a mountain in one of the most remote parts of North Carolina.
I should have a better chance of being struck by lightning than to bump into this man again. And right now, I’m wishing a bolt would shoot down from this wide blue sky and knock me right off this mortal plane.
“It is you,” he says. His brow furrows like he’s not sure how to feel about this either. He shoves his hands into his jeans pockets and says, “It’s good to see you again.”
Is it, though? I feel like a bunny caught in headlights. How on earth can I get out of this situation? Spending three weeks with genius children in a research lab on a remote mountaintop is one thing, but staying here with Noah Valentine? That’s a different thing entirely. This job doesn’t come with hazard pay, but if Noah’s here, it absolutely should—because this man wrecked me once, and I have no doubt he can do it again.
My eyes trace the long lines of his body and rest on his big hands, and my brain helpfully reminds me of the way they felt tangled in my hair and gripping my waist on the last night that we saw each other.
Suddenly, it’s a hundred degrees on this mountain.
I haven’t seen Noah since we were in college together—six years ago? Seven?—and already my heart’s threatening to beat right out of my chest and flop around between our feet like a fish.
“Let me help you with that,” he says, reaching for my bag. His shoulders are wide, his thighs as big as tree trunks. The sleeves of his dark green shirt are rolled up to his elbows, revealing a small tattoo curling along the inside of his forearm. The wiry Noah that I knew before has been replaced by this man who’s ripped everywhere, whose arm muscles flex in an almost torrid way as he lifts the bag—the heaviest one, with my shoes—and carries it inside the cabin. I try my best to ignore the snug fit of his jeans and his perfectly sculpted butt as I follow him inside.
Because of course Noah Valentine is somehow hotter than he was in college. By a degree of ten. Or maybe a thousand.
Stupefied, I try to think of anything to say to him, anything at all, but the words swirl around in my head like a tornado. None of it makes sense—not the words, not my thoughts, not the fact that he’s on this mountain with me, looking as chiseled and confident as a stunt-double in the Thor movies.
Inside my room, he sets the bag by my bed and turns to catch me staring. His eyes, framed by thick, epic eyebrows that punctuate every word, still have that perpetually sleepy expression that makes him look like he just rolled out of bed.
I do not need to think of Noah Valentine in a bed, with rumpled hair and a lazy grin.
Nope.
“Thanks,” I manage. All other words fly right out of my head.
A tiny smirk touches his lips as he takes the box that I’m clutching tight against my chest and sets it on the desk by the window. When he rests his hands on his hips, the movement drags my eyes exactly where they should not linger, and my mouth instantly goes dry.
I force my gaze back up, but that’s no good either because now my brain is calculating just how delightful his beard stubble would feel against my skin—because unfortunately my body remembers that, too. He lifts one dark eyebrow as if he can read my mind and rakes a hand through his hair—short on the sides and long enough on top to stand up in every direction. He always did have an intense gaze, but now? It’s smoldering.
And I’m a tinderbox.
“It’s been a minute,” he says, his voice more gravelly than I remember. “How have you been?”
He says this like it’s not at all uncomfortable to be stuck in this tiny room, mere inches apart. Like he hasn’t seen himself in a mirror lately and has no memory of the last time we were together. His voice is cool and even, but that furrow in his brow says he’s just as taken aback as I am.
“Great,” I say, because apparently I’ve been reduced to one-syllable words only.
“I can’t believe it’s really you.” He offers a tiny smile, like he’s not sure what to feel, either..
“Hey, Victoria,” Sophie says, stepping into the doorway. “I’ve got your—oh. I see you’ve met Noah.”
Noah gives her his full smile and says, “Just helping Victoria get her things inside.”
Sophie turns to me and says, “One of the many reasons we love this guy. Always looking out for us.”
I nod, expecting him to say more. Like how we know each other already, how we went to college together, how I ruined our friendship and smashed it to smithereens.
How I was over the moon for him and did the one thing that was guaranteed to drive us apart—and then never saw him again.
But instead, he gives me a quick glance and says, “I’ll go get the last one from your car,” and hurries out of the room like the building’s on fire.
Escape would be so easy. Just climb into my car and drive as fast as possible down that winding mountain road, back to what’s familiar and safe. In under a minute, I could high-tail it out of here, like I did when I took that awful telemarketing job in college. On that day, I’d made it through exactly three hours of “Dial and smile!” training before erupting into tears and fleeing on my lunch break, never to be seen again. Getting into my car now means beating that record because I’ve been on this mountain for less than forty-five minutes.
But I can’t leave because I gave Roxy my word. And I need this job.
Plus, the whole point of this exercise is to prove to myself that I can take a leap and challenge myself to grow. And just like my Grandma June used to say, Nothing worth having ever came easy.
Besides, I’ve done scarier things than this.
Like for example, when Noah and I stayed in that creepy motel on our summer road trip after sophomore year. The Tinkerbell Motel had what some people would call personality —a bricked-up bathroom window, five deadbolt locks on the door, and gigantic neon signs that filled our room with so much bright pink light that it felt like we were inside a lava lamp. I’d barely slept a wink in that place, certain that we’d walked right into an episode of The X-Files and would end up featured on a murder podcast. Noah, however, had slept like a rock in the bed across from mine, the blissful slumber of a man not concerned about being chopped up into tiny pieces and fed to alligators in the adjacent reptile park. Shaking my head, I force that memory back down where it belongs, way down deep with all the other feelings I had for Noah Valentine.
Because I definitely shouldn’t revisit any of those feelings now. Especially the ones that leave me weak-kneed.
Sophie fills me in on all things space camp as she and Noah give me a tour of the buildings: a research lab that looks like something NASA would have, a cafeteria with big floor-to-ceiling windows, an administrative building with offices and meeting spaces. Noah barely says a word as we walk, his face impossible to read. Is he annoyed that I’m here? Angry? Something else? He opens the door for us and avoids my gaze as Sophie leads me inside the admin building at the center of the campus. It’s clearly the newest, with a high-ceilinged lobby and stairs that lead to offices above. A small library and conference room are tucked into one branch of the main floor, along with a lounge and kitchenette.
Sophie explains that we’ve been granted access to everything on the main floor, including a conference room to use as our office. Painted white and filled with modern Swedish-style furniture, it’s the coziest room we’ve seen so far. When Sophie sits on the sofa, Noah and I sit in the chairs on either side of her. Already, it feels like we’re opposing forces. Each time we make eye contact, he gives me a tight smile or averts his gaze like he’s equal parts annoyed and flabbergasted.
Because they’re old pros at this, Sophie and Noah have already created a schedule of activities for each day. Noah pulls out a three-inch binder that is no doubt his library for all things outdoorsy and kid-appropriate. He hands me a printout that immediately makes my stomach twist into knots.
“Most of this isn’t set in stone,” Noah says, leaning back in his chair. I try to ignore the line of his long legs, his full lips and sharp jaw. When he drags his fingers over his day-old beard stubble, I feel a tug low in my belly that is definitely not work appropriate.
What on earth is wrong with me?
His eyes dart to mine, and my heart leaps into my throat. I shift my gaze back to the paper in front of me and will my eyeballs to stay right there on the activities list, between Frisbee golf and hiking trails.
“The weekend outings had to be booked in advance,” he says, “the horseback riding, the canoeing, the camping and so forth. But the weekday afternoon and evening programs are totally flexible.”
Sophie grins. “I get to go on these, too, right?”
“Of course,” Noah says. He smiles at her so his dimples show, and lord have mercy, I forgot how those dimples make me forget about everything else in the whole world.
“I mean, technically the weekend trips are in your off-time,” he tells her, “but you’re welcome to come along.”
Sophie nods enthusiastically, like she can’t wait to gallop down one of these hillsides on horseback, and my heart pounds like a bass drum: You’re doomed. Doomed, doomed, doomed.
When was the last time I rode a horse that wasn’t on a carousel? When was the last time I slept on the ground ? Noah and Sophie are getting more and more excited as they talk logistics, and it just underscores the reality that I’m going to be the one who falls off the side of the mountain or gets snatched up by a hungry bear. What was I thinking saying yes to this? I was prepared for making s’mores and singing horrendously off-key around a campfire, and hiking on a well-defined and oh-please-Jesus mostly flat trail—but what Noah’s suggesting? I feel like a contestant on that reality show that plops a bunch of city people down blindfolded in the middle of a rainforest and then films them until they cry.
I’m an ugly crier.
I think I’m hiding all of these thoughts well until Noah stops and says, “You okay, Vic?”
Vic. No one calls me that now except my sister. Hearing it in Noah’s rumbling drawl snaps me back in time. Back to when he’d sling his arm over my shoulders and pull me close to tell me some goofy joke or a secret meant just for us. We’d been inseparable back then, and I’d thought we’d have that closeness forever.
You and me against the world, Vic , he used to say. And I felt that all the way down in my bones.
“Of course,” I say. “Sounds amazing.” I give him an exaggerated thumbs-up and immediately regret it because while it looks cute when Sophie does it, I probably look like a possum trying to hitchhike.
Smooth.
Noah lifts a brow, clearly skeptical.
Sophie gives me a sympathetic smile and glances at Noah, and I’m certain she can see straight through this act. She’s a bonafide Very Outdoorsy Person, after all—just like he is—and those folks can spot an imposter faster than they can spot poison ivy in a thicket.
This is going to be the longest three weeks of my life.
“I’ve got the photo page up and running, too,” Sophie says. Turning her laptop toward me, she explains that each day she’ll post photos to document the kids’ activities. “The parents love getting a peek at what everyone’s up to in class and otherwise,” she says. “It’s great since we have spotty cell service and the kids have limited time to use the lounge phones.”
Noah nods. “Sophie’s in charge of wrangling photos, but if you want to use your cell and send her any, feel free.”
“Will do.” I look over Sophie’s shoulder as she scrolls through the web page so I can see the setup.
“Password protected,” she says. “It’s only for staff, campers, and their parents.”
“Great idea,” I tell her, hoping that the parents won’t immediately see me as an imposter, too.
“Hey, Victoria,” Noah says, and part of me is sad to hear him drop the familiar nickname. “To be clear, you’re welcome to hit me with any ideas you have for activities. I don’t mean to leave you out of the planning.” He gives me a polite smile, resting his big forearms on the table. How does one even get forearms that sculpted? He probably climbs sheer rock faces and rows himself upriver through rapids just for fun. “I pulled a lot of the weekday programs from our go-to list of things the kids have done in years past. Except for the trips that required reservations, everything else is negotiable. I just figured this would be a good place to start, and of course we’ll see what the kids gravitate toward, too.”
Bless his heart, Noah thinks I’m melting into the floor because I’m feeling left out of their planning. It hasn’t dawned on him yet that I’m terrified of spending the night in the wilderness, in a tent that basically makes me a burrito for a bear. He doesn’t realize that scaling mountains and riding horses and paddling down a river is light-years beyond my comfort zone.
And I’d really like to keep it that way. Because the last thing I need is to be humiliated in front of Noah. Again.
“No worries,” I tell him, my voice entirely too chipper. “I appreciate you taking the reins here. I’m sure I’ll think of some things to add once I meet the kids.”
“Perfect,” he says, and there’s that tight smile again, the one that says he’s seeing more than he lets on. The man’s like a human lie detector and picks up on subtle cues that slip by most people—it’s one of the many things that drew me to him all those years ago.
The way he’s looking at me now, though, means he’s not having one bit of trouble seeing through my act. He knows as surely as I do that I’m in way over my head.