Chapter Seven
Sienna
The next couple of days passed with an almost suspicious level of smoothness.
Too smooth if you were to ask me, which, apparently, nobody did.
But it was as if the universe was trying to lull me into a sense of security before dropping another mortifying moment directly on my head.
Carson stayed busy getting acquainted with the lodge grounds, the trails, the storage shed, and, unfortunately, the residents who were far too determined to welcome him into the fold.
Buttercup Lake loved newcomers. Buttercup Lake especially loved newcomers who had jawlines strong enough to cut fishing line.
My sisters took him around the lodge; my dad introduced him to the snowmobile shed; Beck roped him into helping sand down a canoe; and Violet brought him a bag full of bakery goods. My mom gifted him a hand-knit scarf, as if he had moved here permanently rather than for a seasonal contract.
Meanwhile, I stayed out of his way.
Strategically.
Intentionally.
Heroically.
Whenever I caught a glimpse of him walking by the lodge windows or heading down the path toward the equipment shed, I made myself busy in the opposite direction.
I stacked towels. I labeled spice jars. I color-coded trail maps.
I reshelved books in the library alphabetically, then by color, followed by mood.
Because I had decided something very important:
For the sake of my sanity, my dignity, and the continued existence of my emotional barriers, it would be best if I did not interact with Carson Reed unless absolutely necessary.
Less Carson meant fewer opportunities to blurt something humiliating.
Less Carson meant fewer cave fantasies I absolutely was not having.
Less Carson meant fewer chances to notice whether he wore boxers or briefs.
Which I was not wondering.
Definitely not.
Not even a little.
Okay, maybe a little.
But I wasn’t going to ask, which meant avoidance was the responsible, mature, and perfectly healthy option.
He needed time to settle in. I needed time to remember how to be a functioning adult human.
It was a win-win.
Except the problem with staying away from Carson was that everything on lodge property wanted to drag me right back into his orbit, including the rescue animals.
Our lodge had its own small collection of rescued residents, which usually meant animals too quirky for some people’s idea of a good companion, which I felt was hogwash.
We had a couple of goats, a potbelly pig named Oatmeal, some llamas I try not to annoy, and a rooster with a personality disorder. But, most notoriously, a zebra named Barcode. And that was just to name a few.
But Barcode was a menace.
The striped fellow was adorable… don’t get me wrong, small for a zebra, big brown eyes, long ears, soft muzzle, but Barcode’s personality was seventy percent mischief and thirty percent calculated escape artistry. If Houdini had hooves, this would be Barcode.
Which brought me to Friday morning as I marched across the snowy paddock to find Barcode standing in the wrong enclosure.
Again.
“Barcode,” I warned, “I swear if you hopped the fence again—”
He blinked at me with innocent zebra betrayal.
“I can see your hoofprints. Don’t pretend. You’re living a life of crime.”
He snorted and swished his tail.
“Unbelievable.” I pushed my hair back as I entered the enclosure and approached him slowly. “You had one job. One. Stay where you’re supposed to stay.”
He nosed my jacket pocket for treats.
“I’m not bribing you back into your home,” I said sternly. “You’re going back the righteous way. Through the gate. Like a law-abiding equine citizen.”
He nudged me harder.
“No. Don’t give me the eyes. That doesn’t work on me.”
It absolutely worked on me.
I sighed and reached into my pocket. “Fine. One apple slice. But afterward, you’re going back.”
He accepted the apple as if he were closing a business deal.
“Okay.” I patted his neck. “Let’s go.”
Barcode took one step, paused, and then, because he possessed the comedic timing of a Broadway performer, he pranced in the opposite direction, tail high, zigzagging like a barcode pattern across the snow.
“Barcode!” I shouted. “Get your dramatic little striped butt back here!”
He did not.
He ran.
I chased.
And I was two seconds away from reconsidering every life choice that led to this moment when a voice behind me said, deep and warm and amused.
“Does he always do that?”
I shrieked.
Not a cute gasp. Not a dainty inhale.
A full, startled, prey-animal yelp.
I spun so fast I nearly face-planted in the snow.
Carson stood a few yards behind me, hands in his jacket pockets, breath clouding in the cold air, eyes dancing with something dangerously close to laughter.
“Oh my God,” I wheezed, slapping a hand over my chest. “You can’t just appear behind people like that.”
“I said something before I approached,” he replied.
“No, you rumbled.”
He tilted his head. “I rumbled.”
“Yes.” I pointed accusingly. “You have a rumble-voice.”
His eyebrows lifted. “A rumble-voice.”
“Yes.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“Bad,” I blurted. “Very bad. You should stop talking immediately.”
He looked down at me for a moment, and I became extremely aware of how close he was, how tall he was, how his eyes looked startlingly blue against the snow in the morning light.
“I will take that into consideration,” he said.
Great. Now his voice had gone warmer. Softer. More rumbly.
Fantastic.
Barcode trotted past us with the confidence of someone who knew she was not the topic of conversation anymore.
“So,” Carson said, glancing toward the zebra, “is this part of your job? Animal rodeos?”
“She’s not a rodeo,” I muttered, crossing my arms. “She’s a menace.”
“She seems friendly,” Carson said.
“She’s faking it. She’s two escape attempts away from starting a zebra crime syndicate.”
Carson’s mouth twitched. “I will be sure to stay on her good side.”
I threw my hands up. “No one should be on her good side. It only encourages her.”
He stepped closer, eyes drifting from Barcode back to me. “How have you gotten along without my help for the last two days?”
My stomach did a full somersault.
I opened my mouth to respond, panicked at how that question sounded, like he had been thinking about me, like he had been noticing I was gone, and instead of saying something normal or coherent, I said, “I survived. Barely. But I did not die, which is impressive considering the emotional wilderness I was lost in.”
Carson blinked. “The emotional wilderness.”
“Yes.” I nodded rapidly. “It’s treacherous, very rugged, and lots of… cliffs.”
“Cliffs.”
“Symbolic cliffs.”
“I see.”
“I mean—no! Not like cliff-cliffs. Not like the cliffs you think about. Or the cliffs I mentioned in the cave conversation, we definitely will not revisit.”
His eyes warmed with amusement. “All right.”
He wasn’t making fun of me.
He wasn’t teasing.
He was just… looking at me, like I was interesting and as if I was someone worth listening to, while I babbled about metaphorical cliffs and escaped zebras.
And that made everything inside me much worse.
I cleared my throat. “Anyway. You’ve been busy. With Beck. And Violet. And literally all members of my family except me. Because I have things to do. Important things.”
“Oh?”
“Very important,” I said. “Top-tier responsibilities.”
“Such as chasing a zebra around in the spring snow.”
“It’s not chasing,” I said defensively. “It’s guiding.”
“Guiding,” he repeated.
“Yes.”
“Does he ever listen to your guidance?”
“No,” I admitted. “Not once.”
“So perhaps it is chasing.”
I groaned. “Don’t take the zebra’s side.”
He shrugged lightly. “She seems confident in her choices.”
“Oh my gosh,” I whispered. “You and Barcode are a united front.”
He folded his arms, a quiet warmth settling into his expression. “Are you worried I cannot handle things without you here?”
I froze, because the worst part?
It sounded dangerously close to the question I had asked him.
How have you gotten along without me?
Heat shot straight up my neck.
“No,” I said too fast. “Obviously not. Why would I worry? I don’t worry. I don’t… think about… things.”
“You don’t,” he echoed, clearly unconvinced.
“I don’t,” I insisted.
“I see.”
“Stop saying I see.”
“I see.”
“Carson.”
He finally laughed a soft, low sound that made the cold morning air feel warmer, and my brain short-circuited.
I turned abruptly toward Barcode, who was stuffing her face into a hay pile like she hadn’t caused chaos five minutes earlier. “Okay. Enough distractions. You, ma’am. You are going home.”
Carson followed as I marched across the paddock.
“Do you need help?” he asked.
“No. Yes. Maybe. But not from you.”
“Why not from me?”
“Because I’m being professional.”
He nodded solemnly, though a smile tugged at his lips. “Of course.”
“And because I am not letting Barcode witness my emotional vulnerability,” I added.
“That seems wise.”
“And because,” I continued, shoving open the gate, “I’m trying to avoid embarrassing myself.”
He stepped closer. “Have you?”
I turned.
He was right there.
Close enough that I could feel his breath in the cold air and near enough to see the flecks of gold in his eyes.
My heart punched the inside of my rib cage.
“Yes,” I whispered. “I did…earlier in the kitchen. And then again in the coffee shop. And probably right now. It’s something I excel at.”
He studied me quietly, like he was trying to decide if stepping closer would startle me or pull me in.
It was not fair that he had that kind of presence.
Not fair at all.
“I think,” he said softly, “you worry too much about how you come across.”
“Of course I do,” I said, flustered. “I am a professional disaster, and my family apparently agrees with that assessment since they hired me backup.”
“You’re not a disaster.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
Barcode let out a loud snort behind us.
We both startled, and the spell broke.
I pushed the zebra gently toward the correct enclosure, trying to gather the tatters of my dignity. “Okay, Barcode, enough sabotage for today.”
Carson made a quiet sound that suspiciously resembled a cough, hiding a laugh.
I didn't look at him.
I couldn’t.
Instead, I focused on latching the gate, smoothing my ponytail, and reminding myself that less Carson was the goal. Less Carson meant less chaos. Less tongue-tied. Less… everything.
Except he stepped beside me again, hands tucked into his jacket, expression unreadable.
“When do you want to meet about the upcoming trips?” he asked.
“Soon,” I said. “First trip launches whether the snow agrees or not.”
He nodded. “I saw the board. We are paired together for the first several trips.”
“Yep,” I said, trying and failing to sound casual. “In the woods. Alone. With guests. Together. Alone-together. Probably too many together. We should split up sooner.”
He lifted an eyebrow.
I whimpered internally.
“We will schedule something,” I squeaked. “Tomorrow. Or later. Or never. No. Not never. Obviously, we have to meet. So… tomorrow.”
He nodded slowly. “Tomorrow works.”
And then, because the universe enjoyed my suffering, he added, “Looking forward to it.”
I nearly swallowed my tongue.
Carson gave Barcode a pat on the head, then glanced over at me one last time before turning toward the trail leading back to his cabin.
I watched him go.
Stupidly.
Weakly.
Regretting every cell in my body that reacted to him like he was the answer to a question I hadn’t meant to ask.
Less Carson, I told myself.
Less Carson would be better.
Safer.
Simpler.
But as Barcode nudged my shoulder, almost in sympathy or mockery, I knew the truth.
Tomorrow was going to ruin everything.
And it hadn’t even arrived yet.