Chapter 6
Chapter Six
VICTORIA
Y ou’re not sharing,” Noah says, teasing. He inches closer with his spoon, a wicked gleam in his eye. It’s spring break of our senior year in college, and we’re on the beach behind the house we’re sharing with some friends. Six of us have spent the week crammed into this little barrier-island bungalow that I’m pretty sure belongs to someone’s grandmother, based on all the doilies and floral upholstery. Our friends went back inside hours ago, so now it’s just me and Noah, under a thin blanket next to the dying campfire, eating the special combo of shave-ice and gelato that’s only made in one special food truck down by the boardwalk.
“The whole point of us not getting the same flavor was so we could double the culinary adventure,” he says, his brow lifting.
“But I like this one better,” I say, nearing the bottom of the cup.
Mischief flashes in his eyes as he leans closer, his fingers wiggling.
“Don’t you dare,” I warn. “Stop right there, Valentine.”
He grins and then pounces, his fingers tickling just below my ribs, where he knows I’m most ticklish.
Squealing, I hold fast to the gelato and try to wriggle out of his grasp. It’s no use because he’s stronger, faster, and more determined. That, and I don’t hate the feel of his hands on me, even when he’s tickling me mercilessly.
He lunges for the cup, and I topple backwards into the sand, still laughing as he falls on top of me, his arms caging me in. His hair’s wild from the ocean and the wind, his hazel eyes glittering in the light from the campfire. As he reaches over my head to pluck the cup from my hand, he says, “Uh-oh, what are you going to do now, Griffin?”
When his weight shifts, I take that moment to roll us over—but I put way too much effort into it because we roll twice, and Noah gasps in surprise. When we stop, he’s on his back in the sand, and I’m draped over him like a blanket. Sand is sticking to my bare legs, and now Noah’s laughing too. My hips are pinned against his, and I can feel his heartbeat pounding against my chest. We touch all the time—his arm slung around my shoulders, a hug when we say goodnight—but this is different. Noah’s my best friend, but over the last few months, I’ve caught all the feelings—big time. I’ve wanted to tell him how I feel so often, but each time convince myself that I should wait for some sign that he feels the same way. He’s the closest friend I’ve ever had, and I don’t want to ruin everything between us.
But feeling his whole body here beneath me, seeing that teasing glint in his eyes, my body just wants more. And it’s done listening to reason .
He lifts the cup into the air, victorious. “Got it,” he says, a little out of breath. And when his eyebrow lifts and that sexy smirk appears, I lose what’s left of my control.
I close the few inches between us and kiss him gently at first, but when his teeth scrape against my lips and I feel his hand rest in the small of my back, it lights a fire inside me. He groans as I kiss him harder, tangling my hands in his hair. I’ve imagined how this might happen a thousand different ways, and this is better than all of them. Noah’s lips are soft but firm, and when his teeth catch my bottom lip, I’m certain my heart will explode.
It’s heaven.
I’m gasping when I break the kiss, and then Noah’s hands are on my wrists, gently pulling my hands from his hair and resting them on his chest. My heart’s banging against my ribs, and my body is desperate to feel more of his skin against mine—all I can think is, Why did I wait so long? I move to kiss him again, but when his brows pinch together and his lips part, my heart sinks.
“Vic,” he whispers. “We shouldn’t. I can’t—” He pauses, as if choosing his words carefully, and gives my hands a gentle squeeze.
I freeze. This is the worst-case scenario—the outcome I’ve feared most. I wish a giant wave would wash over us and carry me out to sea so I don’t have to hear the next words out of his mouth.
“It’s not you.” He swallows hard and whispers, “I mean, there’s someone else.”
Nope, I stand corrected. This is the worst-case scenario.
“What? Who?” I blurt. “How?” My calculations never included someone else . Because he’s never indicated that someone else exists. Noah and I don’t have secrets.
Well. Mostly.
He sighs. “Samantha. We went to high school together. A while back, we started chatting online, and it’s become this weird long-distance thing.” He shrugs. “It just sort of... happened. We reconnected over winter break, and she’s been bugging me to take this backpacking trip with her this summer?—”
“Oh my god!” I cry. “You have a secret girlfriend?” The air whooshes out of my lungs. Noah has a secret girlfriend . He’s kept this fact from me. On purpose. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me,” I say.
“Not a secret,” he says, frowning. “It’s just new.”
Right now, it feels like there’s a dagger lodged in my chest, but I can’t tell which hurts worse: the fact that Noah has a girlfriend or the fact that he hid her from me.
Or the fact that they’ve made plans together. Post-graduation plans.
“I honestly didn’t know how to tell you without it being awkward,” he says. “And it just never came up.”
I feel sick. “But we tell each other everything.”
He lifts a brow. “Do we?”
My cheeks burn at the pointed question, and now I can’t get away from him fast enough. Because yes, I’ve been keeping my feelings secret, too. “Sorry,” I tell him. “I just got caught up in the moment. Nothing more.” But that’s a lie. I’ve wanted this for so many months now and was just afraid to tell him. Afraid he wouldn’t feel the same.
Afraid he’d look at me the way he is now, with this exact pained expression as he crushed my heart. Because he doesn’t share my feelings.
And he never will.
I scramble off of him, but he catches my hand. “Wait,” he says. “Don’t go.”
“I definitely should go,” I tell him, because I’m about two seconds away from falling apart. Can you die from humiliation? I think yes. And I have no one to blame but myself because I waited too long to say something— do something. And now I’ve missed my chance. Because now he has Samantha, and they have plans.
And the way he’s looking at me now—with pity —I can’t take it.
My throat feels like it’s closing up. There’s no undoing this moment. There’s no going back to how we were before.
“Please, Vic,” he says, getting to his feet to follow me. “Don’t leave like this. Just talk to me.”
But I’m already walking back toward the beach house, the sand biting at my bare feet, my lip still tingling from that kiss that—for one moment—cracked my heart wide open.
“Did you hear me, Victoria?” Sophie’s voice yanks me back to the present where there is no beach, no Noah, and no heart-stopping kiss. It’s just Sophie and me sitting at a table on the far side of the cafeteria, her big binder of plans resting between us.
“Sorry,” I say, my voice raspy. “Didn’t sleep that well. I’m listening.” I reach for my coffee and take a big gulp. It tastes like actual dirt, but it’ll have to do.
Sophie arches her brow. “Not a morning person,” she says with a teasing grin. “Noted.”
“I’ll be better in a couple of days. Promise.” I shake my head, trying to knock those memories of Noah out of my brain. It’s been ages since I thought about that night on the beach, but the conversation we had last night has made the memory come back vivid and fierce. I feel like I’m blushing all the way down to my new boots, and my body shivers as if he’s just stepped away and left me cold.
Get it together , I scold myself. I can’t think about Noah’s strong hands or his fiery kisses, and I sure as heck shouldn’t be dreaming about him. If compartmentalizing were a sport, I’d have a wall full of gold medals. Now I need to shove all of these feelings for Noah into a neat little box, as far from my summer camp box as possible.
As if summoned by my scorching memory, Noah strides over to our table, carrying a mug of coffee and a bagel. Dressed in dark jeans and a button-up green shirt that seem tailor-made for him, he’s the epitome of mountain-man cool. When he sits in the chair across from me, I try to ignore his rumpled hair and scruffy jaw, willing myself to forget how they once felt against my skin.
My body, though, does not want to forget. It wants to catalogue every detail all over again and then play that memory on an endless loop like some lovesick fool.
He bites into the bagel and then licks a bit of cream cheese from his thumb, his eyes flicking to mine. He holds my gaze with an intensity that makes me wonder if he’s somehow able to read my mind. A furious blush races to the tips of my ears, and I chug more of my horrible coffee to distract myself from the flick of his tongue.
Pretending we don’t know each other is one thing. Pretending our past never happened is impossible—and my brain seems to want to remind me of that every chance it gets.
As much as I regret the way our friendship ended, I don’t regret everything that came before. I don’t want to forget how Noah once made me feel so seen. So valued. So loved. Everything that I didn’t have growing up Griffin.
I would, however, like to wipe everything that happened post-kiss from my memory because that moment was the first and only time that I felt like I wasn’t enough for him.
And that feeling was the worst part of the whole debacle, by far.
Reaching for my toast, I shove all thoughts of Noah’s lips and tongue way down deep, where they belong. Down in the fossil record, a million miles from here. Roxy doesn’t have a lot of rules for this camp, but canoodling with your co-workers definitely breaks at least two of them—that’s front and center in the staff rules section of the camp manual, highlighted for extra emphasis. Not that there’s any chance of canoodling with Noah. That ship sailed a long time ago. Then it crashed into rocks and sank to the bottom of the ocean.
There is no more Noah and Victoria, and never will be again. So he really needs to stop looking at me like I’m a puzzle he wants to solve.
And he needs to stop licking his thumb.
“As of right now, all flights are on schedule,” Sophie says, pen tapping on the table. She has a checklist for everything, including today’s airport runs. “Half the kids’ flights will be in by noon, and the rest by three. If anyone gets delayed, I can make the third run and let y’all stay here.” Her welcome strategy is simple: she’ll stay on site to greet the kids who arrive by car while Noah and I shuttle campers from the airport. We’ll drive separately, a couple of hours apart, and have all the kids back by four-thirty this afternoon. Then it’s dinner, orientation, and a night of goofy icebreakers and games to get the kids settled. This packed schedule should be enough to occupy my brain and leave it no space to devote to Noah and his smoldering gazes and lopsided smiles.
But should rarely happens the way I want it to.
“I think you and I should go together,” Noah tells me, sipping his coffee. “That way, I can help you as the kids arrive. We’ll load up your vehicle, and you can bring the first group back. I’ll hang back with the late arrivals.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I say. “That’s like three extra hours at the airport for you.”
He shrugs. “It’s okay. It can be a lot the first time.”
And now I understand—he thinks I need supervision because I can’t handle wrangling half a dozen kids on my own. Heat blooms in my cheeks again.
“Good idea,” Sophie says. “The airport’s small, but sometimes collecting the kiddos is like its own little scavenger hunt.” She looks at me and says, “Never hurts to have backup.”
I stab my fork into my omelet and muster up a smile. “Of course. Never say no to backup.”
Noah checks his watch—he’s one of the few men my age on this earth who still wears one that simply tells time—and lifts a brow. “We should take off in thirty. Meet you by the cars?”
“Sounds good,” I say, tamping down my frustration, reminding myself that Sophie and Noah have worked together before. They trust each other. I’m the wildcard here, the one who has to prove herself.
So that’s exactly what I’ll do. I’ll ace this transport duty and make Noah feel like a doofus for hovering over me like a helicopter parent.
“Pro-tip? Take a book and some snacks,” Sophie tells me. “There’s always at least one delay.”
“Roger that,” I answer.
Noah stands abruptly, grabbing his travel mug and avoiding my gaze entirely. I was just about to leave myself, but I decide to wait five minutes so we’re not walking out together and forced into idle chatter or deafening silence, pretending we haven’t made this awkwardness between us worse. As he leaves, I push my eggs around my plate while Sophie tells me about the icebreakers that she’s putting together for tonight. And I desperately try to forget how Noah’s thick lashes give his eyes a dreamy look—and how his intense gaze makes it feel like we’re the last two people on earth.
“How does one kid have that many bags?” I ask.
Noah grunts, raking a hand through his unruly hair. “I’ve seen worse.” He seems crabby now that we’re alone, probably because he’s had a whole night to process the fact that he’s stuck with me for the next three weeks.
Across the way in the baggage claim, Derrick, a lanky boy with bright red hair and a million freckles, is pulling a fourth big duffle bag from the conveyor belt. He’s already checked in with us, but he didn’t mention bringing the entire contents of his home with him. He slings a big red bag over his shoulder and stumbles under the weight.
“Did he pack a moon rover in that thing?” I ask.
Noah snorts. “It wouldn’t surprise me if he did. Come on. Let’s put him out of his misery.” He grabs the nearest luggage cart, and we head over to where the kid’s mountain of bags are teetering on the edge of collapse.
Derrick unzips the largest duffle and riffles through it until he pulls out a dark blue ball cap that he shoves onto his head. When Noah and I approach, he crams the clothes back into his bag. By some miracle, it zips closed again.
“Ursa Major,” I say to him. “Cool.”
He blinks at me for a moment and then seems to realize that I’m talking about his hat. Tiny stars are stitched onto it, a faint outline of a bear stitched around them.
“It’s lucky,” he says. “I thought I shouldn’t wear it on the plane since I lose stuff a lot.”
“Wouldn’t want you to lose that one,” I say, and he gives me a tiny smile.
Once we pile Derrick’s entire life onto the cart, two young girls spot us from across the room and wave. Noah and I are both wearing our official neon blue staff tee shirts, so it’s easy for the campers to spot us.
The good thing about an airport this small is that the limited flights mean there’s a smaller window of arrival times, and all incoming children are funneled into this small baggage claim with only two conveyor belts. The bad news is that there is no kiosk with decent coffee, and Noah and I are stuck together like sardines.
Soon, we’re a cluster of six, waiting on five more. In the row of seats across from us, the kids have moved past their introductions and started passing phones and iPads around. The two girls, Layla and Priya, met each other on their flight from Atlanta. They’ve been giggling and playing some game on their phones together ever since. Meanwhile, Derrick and Ethan are sharing earbuds and watching something on an iPad screen that has them completely entranced.
“The next flight has been delayed an hour,” Noah says, checking his phone. “You want to go ahead and take this group back?”
“I don’t mind waiting for one more,” I tell him. The plan was for me to take five kids and leave him four, mostly in case someone else packs like Derrick.
“I’m not worried,” he says. “I think your vehicle’s going to be loaded to the gills anyway.” He eyes the pile of luggage like he’s solving a math problem, but it feels like the real calculation is how to get me out of here quickly.
“Good thing you sprang for the roof racks on the rentals,” I say.
“No kidding. Bungee cords have become my new best friend.” He stands then and rounds up the four kids to tell them the plan. With them, he’s back to being warm, friendly Noah.
I hate that he feels like he can’t be that warm and friendly with me—but technically, he’s doing exactly as I asked, pretending we’re strangers who have never shared intimate moments that made the world wobble on its axis.
“Look at that,” Noah says. “We didn’t even need the bungee cords.” He’d stashed a set in each vehicle, though, just in case. Because that’s Noah—always prepared.
The Tahoe I’m driving is crammed tight. Luckily, no one else brought as many bags as Derrick, but it was still a challenge to get them all wedged into the back. When my four passengers are strapped in, with Priya riding shotgun, Noah gives me a little salute and strides back inside the door to baggage claim to wait for the rest of the flights to arrive.
“Everybody ready?” I ask.
I’m met with a couple of nods and two raised thumbs from the back seat. Derrick and Ethan are in the seat right behind me, and Layla’s in the very back with her pink rolling suitcase strapped in beside her.
Next to me, Priya’s scrolling on her phone. She has deep brown skin and curly hair that’s raven-black, cut just above her shoulders. A cherry-red streak peeks through at the bottom, the same color as her tee shirt. “Can we put on music?” she asks.
“Sure,” I say, pulling out of the parking lot. “If you can figure out how to?—”
Before I can finish the thought, she’s plugged her phone into the console with a short pink cord, her fingers tapping against the touchscreen on the dash.
“Fair enough,” I mutter, merging onto the highway.
The kids are mostly quiet, chattering about which other camps they’ve been to, which class they’re taking at ours. Before long, we’re halfway through the playlist that Priya’s humming along to, and I’m turning off the main highway and thinking that maybe I’ve been worried over nothing. My car’s full of kids who seem friendly and happy to be headed up the mountain. I’ve got Roxy in my corner, a job that could shake me out of my funk.
Things could be a lot worse. And they have been.
It’s nearly two o’clock, and Noah should be leaving just after three-thirty, when the last flight arrives. We’ll all get back in time for the kids to unload their bags and meet their roommates before orientation and dinner.
“Do you work at a lot of camps like this?” Priya asks.
“Actually, it’s my first one,” I tell her. “I mean, aside from ones I went to as a kid.”
She nods. “This is my first astronomy camp.”
“Mine too.”
“I don’t know much about astronomy,” she says, her voice lower. “I was supposed to go to marine biology camp, but it got canceled. My mom thought I’d like this place better anyway. She used to teach astrophysics at the University of Mumbai, but now she teaches at Cal Tech.”
“Wow,” I tell her. “That’s impressive.”
She nods. “Astronomy’s cool and all, but I really wanted to swim with some dolphins. Mom thinks that’s silly, though. She’s glad that camp was canceled.” She says this all matter-of-factly, with only a hint of emotion. I can’t help but see a little of myself in her because her mom sounds a lot like mine.
“I don’t know much about astronomy either,” I say. “So it’ll be an adventure for us both.”
Priya smiles. “I like adventure. I can’t wait for our camping trip.”
From the back of the car, Layla hollers, “Hey, turn it up! This is my favorite!”
As Priya turns the music up, she and Layla belt out the chorus to a Taylor Swift song that will no doubt be their summer anthem.
Ethan and Derrick nod along, still staring at the iPad they’re sharing.
Just as Layla hits her last “Uh-huh, that’s right,” the car bounces as it hits a pothole the size of a moon crater. I grit my teeth, gripping the wheel tighter as the kids shriek and laugh. We’re on a two-lane highway with pasture on one side and woods on the other, and this road looks like it hasn’t been re-paved in thirty years.
A loud rumbling fills the air, and I brake gently, hoping the sound is just part of the next song on Priya’s playlist. But the thwack-thwack-thwack that follows makes my stomach sink.
“What's that?” Priya says, her eyes wide.
“It’s okay,” I say calmly, “But I think we have a flat.”
I slow down, easing off the road, while a chorus of questions erupt from the back seats—suddenly everyone has something to say, and the phones aren’t nearly as interesting as why I’m pulling onto the grassy shoulder.
“Y’all hang tight a minute,” I tell them. “I just need to check something on the car.”
Fingers crossed, I climb out and walk towards the back, telling myself I’m just being extra cautious and imagining the worst case scenario.
Except that I’m not, because the rear passenger tire is flat as a pancake.
On our side of the road is a wide-open meadow, full of knee-high weeds and wildflowers. On the other is dense forest with the mountains looming beyond. Thirty yards away, a ramshackle barn sits across the field near the tree line. It’s the only man-made thing out here, aside from the telephone poles that look like they’ve been here for a hundred years.
Once all the kids are out of the car, I haul the bags out of the back because of course, the spare tire is in the compartment below, under ten thousand pounds of Derrick’s luggage.
“Can’t you call like, roadside assistance?” Derrick says. He shoves his hair from his eyes, and for a moment, it stands straight up.
“That’ll take too long out here,” I say. “I don’t want you to miss the evening activities.” I stop short of telling him that we’re in the middle of nowhere, a solid hour from even a Starbucks. Laurel Creek isn’t far, but it’s Sunday, and that means the whole town’s closed.
“Besides,” I tell them. “It’s just a flat. An easy fix.”
They look at me with varying degrees of doubt etched into their faces.
“So today you learn a new life skill,” I quip, digging the jack out of the side compartment.
“My dad had a flat when we went to the beach last summer,” Ethan says. He’s all lanky limbs and sharp angles, with a mop of sandy blond hair that keeps falling in his eyes. “But he just kicked it a bunch of times and called a tow truck.”
I sigh, lifting the spare tire from the floor compartment. I haven’t changed a flat since college, but I’m hoping all the steps come back to me once I get my hands dirty.
A car zips past us, the only one I’ve seen since we pulled over. “I need all of you to stay there in the shade, okay?” I point them towards the grassy area between the shoulder and the tree line, several yards from the car. “You can help me by watching for traffic.”
“On it!” Layla sings. Everything about her screams bright energy, from her electric blue shirt and pink shorts to the perky top note of her voice. Her dark brown hair is cut right below her ears, her bangs falling in her eyes. She skips toward the clearing with the other kids at her heels, far enough from the road that I won’t worry about them.
The memory of how to do this comes back to me as I remove all the bolts from the hubcap, just like Dad taught me when I first learned to drive. My hair’s falling in my face, and my tee shirt is sticking to me, but I manage to assemble the jack and remove the tire without too much difficulty. Meanwhile, the kids sit in a semicircle, a couple of them staring intently at the road.
“Car!” Priya shouts, pointing in the opposite direction.
I give her a thumbs-up and move the spare tire over and slip it into place. After some fussing, the bolts are tight and the tire is secure. I double-check everything and then put the jack and the bad tire into the floor compartment.
I give myself a mental high-five and call out, “Okay guys! Let’s load up.”
They help me pile the luggage back into the car as I brush a bit of dirt from my eye. The next time I look up, I only count three kids.
“Hey, where’s Derrick?” I ask.
Layla says, “He was here a minute ago.”
My stomach drops to the ground. I look all around us, down the road, across the meadow, over by the big oak with the pool of shade.
There’s no sign of him.
My throat starts to close up, but I force out a yell anyway. “Derrick!” I holler. It’s a strangled cry, but I pull myself together because the last thing these kids need is to see me panic.
I call his name again, and the other kids do, too, and my heart is pounding like a jackhammer. It’s been less than three hours, and I’ve somehow lost a kid? When there were only four to begin with? A hundred terrifying thoughts race through my brain. I will never forgive myself if I don’t find him in the next ten seconds.
I bet Noah Valentine never lost a kid out here. He probably never even loses his car keys.
My eyes rest on the barn at the edge of the field, and I bite my lip.
“Hey, there he is,” Ethan says, pointing in the opposite direction, toward the trees.
I follow his gaze, and sure enough, Derrick is shuffling out of the tree line like he’s just out for a stroll.
“Derrick!” I call, trying not to sound like I’m screaming “FIRE!” to save a whole city from an inferno, and wave him over to us.
He jogs over to the group, and I ask, “Where the heck were you?”
He blinks at me and shrugs. “I had to pee,” he says, as if Occam’s Razor should have led me to that answer first.
A ten-ton boulder has been lifted off my chest. But that was also the closest call ever and just more evidence that coming here was the worst idea that ever popped into my brain.
I can barely keep a cactus alive—what made me think I could be in charge of tiny humans?
“Okay,” I tell them, keeping my voice calm. I take a deep breath because they are fine, and no one is lost forever, and this is on me. “First rule of camp: use the buddy system. When we’re in unfamiliar places, you always take someone with you. Don’t go away from the group all by yourself. Deal?”
“Even to pee?” Ethan says.
“Yes.”
They all nod in agreement. Even Ethan, despite the eye-roll.
“Sorry,” Derrick says, staring between his shoes.
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “You didn’t know that rule yet. But now we all do, and we’ll always make sure there’s someone with us, agreed?”
“Yeah, dude,” Ethan says to Derrick. “What if there was a bear out there? Or a mountain lion?” He pauses and grins. “Or Bigfoot?”
Derrick’s eyes widen, and he looks at me. “There’s mountain lions here?”
“No,” Priya says, frowning. “They don’t live on the east coast.”
“But there are bears,” Layla says. Her eyes twinkle like she’s hoping to see one.
“Correct,” I say, “So, buddy system.”
They pile back into the car, debating the likelihood of seeing Bigfoot while I check my phone. There’s a text from Sophie asking how things are going with a string of smiley-face emojis.
I quickly reply: All good! Headed back now.
She sends me a thumbs-up immediately, no doubt answering texts from her laptop, since the service on the mountain is so spotty.
Once we’re back on the road, Priya starts the music again and hums along while Derrick and Ethan compare their knowledge of North American cryptids.
“You can’t prove that Bigfoot doesn’t exist, though,” Ethan says. “Logically, you can’t prove the absence of something.”
“Sure you can,” Derrick says. “We can prove that Bigfoot is not in this car.”
“You can gather data to indicate that something doesn’t exist in a certain set of conditions,” Ethan argues. “He might not be present in this car, at this moment—but we can’t say he doesn’t exist anywhere on the planet or in the multiverse.”
Derrick groans.
“It’s the scientific method, dude,” Ethan says.
“Sort of,” Priya says.
I glance at the car’s GPS as the dot that is us shifts over into the uncharted green of the map. Our blue dot hovers in that mysterious space in between where we are and where we should be until the glitch finally corrects itself after the next turn.
Never has a map felt so accurate for my life.
When we pull up to the institute, the kids start firing questions at me, curious about every detail of this place. Their faces are plastered to the windows as they take in the big radio telescopes, the towering evergreens, the wide blue sky.
They’re full of excited chatter now, and I’m still humming with adrenaline from our roadside adventure. Because it’s nearly five now, the kids will just barely have time to get their bags into their rooms before orientation starts.
I park by the cabins and haul the luggage out double-time, telling them to meet back right here in fifteen minutes. When they’ve all disappeared into the cabins, I collapse against the car and lay my hands on the roof, trying to force some air back into my lungs and slow my hammering heart.
“Hey,” Noah says from behind me, and that one word is enough to startle me so much that my knees wobble.
I turn, giving him my nothing-to-see-here face. “Hi,” I say, my tone way too chipper. “How’s it going?”
“How are you just now getting back?” he says, his brow furrowed. “Is everything okay?” His eyes rake over me—slower than necessary—taking in my messy hair, my dirty tee shirt and jeans. A blush creeps into my cheeks as his eyes lift up to mine.
“Flat tire,” I answer, hoping I don’t have to admit to also losing a child.
His eyebrows shoot up. “Why didn’t you call me?”
“That seemed unnecessary,” I say with a shrug. “It wasn’t hard to change.”
“We paid for roadside assistance, you know. With the rentals.” He plants his hands on his hips and frowns. Even his scowl is sexy.
“I figured that would take too long,” I answer. “It wasn’t a big deal.” Plus, I really wanted to solve that problem on my own and not call for rescue. But I keep that thought to myself.
“You’re allowed to ask for help, you know.” He lifts a brow. “You don’t have to do everything yourself.”
I make a show of leaning past him, searching the horizon.
“What?” he says, turning around.
“I’m just looking for that big white horse of yours.”
He lets out a heavy sigh, clearly exasperated. “As the site director, it’s my job to make sure that you’re safe and have all the help you need.” His eyes bore into mine, pinning me to this spot, and my heart does a little somersault because protective Noah is hot . Like surface-of-the-sun hot. “Next time, call me,” he says, his voice gravelly. “We look out for each other here. Buddy system, remember?”
“Fine,” I tell him, holding my hands up in surrender. “Next time I’ll call you.”
He frowns as if he doesn’t believe me.
“Cross my heart,” I say, drawing an invisible X over my chest. His eyes track the movement, and when they drift back up to mine, they’re filled with something that looks a lot like want.
It’s the same look he’d had all those years ago, right before I kissed him on that moonlit beach in Charleston.
He seems to realize that fact at the precise moment that I do and tears his gaze away from mine as a blush touches the tips of his ears.
“Orientation in five,” he says, and is gone before the memory fades.