Chapter Nine
Sienna
The next morning, I sprinted into Buttercup Java like it was a shelter during a tornado warning.
Which, honestly, wasn’t far off. My life was a tornado, spinning violently around one tall, quiet, ridiculously outdoorsy man who had reorganized the equipment shed and my emotional equilibrium in the same week.
Violet and Fiona were already inside, drinking lattes and looking altogether too cheerful for people who’d already taken care of most things at the lodge before the sun was even up.
Abby perked up the second I walked in.
“There she is. Little Miss Hot-and-Bothered.”
“I am not hot-and-bothered,” I snapped. “I’m normal-and-cold. It’s winter.”
Fifi snorted so hard she choked on foam. “Technically, it’s spring.”
“Tell that to Wisconsin.”
Violet stood and pointed me to the booth like she was escorting me into an interrogation chamber. “Sit. You need medical-level caffeine.”
I collapsed into the booth. “I need a lobotomy.”
“Same thing,” Fiona said brightly. “Abby! Triple shot for our sister! She’s lovesick.”
I threw a napkin at her. “I am not lovesick.”
Violet arched an eyebrow at me. “You’re definitely something-sick. You look like you saw a ghost.”
“I saw worse,” I hissed. “I saw Carson.”
Fiona gasped dramatically. “What did he do? Breathe?”
“Yes!”
Both sisters cackled.
Yes, cackled.
“I swear,” I groaned, rubbing my temples, “every time he breathes, I lose one IQ point. That man is a walking, talking intelligence eraser.”
“He does have strong main-character energy,” Violet mused.
“He reorganized the shed,” I said. “Like some kind of… sexy equipment wizard.”
Fiona leaned her chin on her hand. “So you’re into him.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
They stared at me.
I sighed. “Fine. Maybe.”
Violet smirked. “Wow. She admitted it. Mark this day in the Harper family calendar.”
“It’s not my fault,” I insisted. “He has arms. And quiet, broody energy. And he, ugh, he listens when I talk.”
“The nerve,” Violet teased.
Fiona placed a hand over her heart. “The bare minimum. You’re doomed.”
Abby appeared with my latte. “Did someone say doomed? Because if we’re talking about that tall guide with the face and the voice and the shoulders—”
“No.” I slapped my hands over my ears. “We are not summoning Millie’s matchmaking demons today.”
Violet sipped her latte. “Sienna’s worried the entire family hired Carson just to marry her off. Like we’re staging some secret Harper Sister Matrimony Plot.”
“I hadn’t even thought about that, so…” My brows lifted.
Abby considered this deeply. “But you know… that actually sounds like something Millie would do.”
“I KNEW IT,” I shouted.
Violet waved a hand. “Calm down. We’re not that clever.”
“Speak for yourself,” Fiona whispered, then yelped when I kicked her under the table.
“Okay, listen,” I said, leaning in. “We have a major trip coming up. Mid-March. A honeymoon couple. Snow on the ground. Potential frostbite situations. I need to focus on logistics, not Carson’s flannel.”
Violet’s mouth twitched. “His what now?”
“His flannel,” I repeated. “It’s… a problem.”
“He does wear it well,” Fiona said thoughtfully.
“Stop affirming my suffering,” I snapped.
But they weren’t listening. They were in full Harper-sister observational mode, which meant they were about to psychoanalyze me to death over baked goods.
“So,” Fiona said, “what’s the snow situation for the first trip?”
“Oh my God, thank you,” I sighed. “A normal question.”
She nodded primly. “You’re welcome. Now answer.”
“There’s still snowpack on the trails north of Honey Leaf Ridge,” I said, finally grounded in something that wasn’t emotional chaos. “But we should get a thaw this week. If it melts enough, we can avoid the icy scramble.”
“And if it doesn’t?” Violet asked.
“Then I’m bringing serious heaters like portable, battery-powered, and hotspot-level heaters. Romance isn’t cute if your toes fall off.”
Fiona laughed. “Imagine cuddling on your honeymoon while your guide freezes into a Sienna-cicle in the background.”
“I’m not freezing,” I muttered. “I’m prepared.”
“You’re on fire,” Violet said.
“I’m not…”
“Your crush will probably defrost the campsite,” Fiona added helpfully. “Problem solved.”
I playfully shoved her shoulder. “Shut up.”
But even as they teased me, I felt a strange swirl of nerves and warmth and panic. Because they weren’t actually wrong. Something inside me was heating up whenever Carson was around. Something I didn’t trust. Something I absolutely did not subscribe to.
“I don’t believe in relationships,” I said firmly, gripping my latte like it was holy doctrine.
Violet raised an eyebrow. “You don’t believe in them… or you don’t want one?”
“Both,” I said quickly.
Fiona snorted. “Oh, that is a lie.”
“It’s not a lie,” I argued. “Relationships are messy. Complicated. People leave. They get bored. They stop communicating, and then suddenly you’re alone reading survival manuals in your room, wondering why everyone else is in love.”
My sisters exchanged a look.
I hated when they did that. It meant they were silently agreeing that I was emotionally underneath them.
“Sienna,” Violet said gently, “you’re not alone.”
“I didn’t mean literally,” I grumbled. “Just… romantically alone.”
Fiona nudged me. “You could fix that.”
“With who?” I scoffed.
They stared at me.
My face flamed. “No. Absolutely not. He is temporary. A seasonal guide. A migratory species. He will be gone by fall. He’s like the monarchs. He’ll flutter away with all his gusto come fall.”
“Maybe,” Violet said. “Maybe not.”
“No. He will. He should.” I shook my head. “I cannot form attachments to things with biceps.”
Fiona sipped her mocha. “Oh, honey. Too late.”
I opened my mouth to argue.
Then it happened.
Violet’s eyes widened.
Fiona gasped.
And I turned.
Carson Reed walked down the sidewalk, visible through the front windows. Traitorous spring snowflakes dusted his hair. His puffer coat hugged shoulders that looked carved from wilderness-grade stone. His breath fogged in the air. His stride was calm, confident, and steady.
My heart tripped, actually tripped, like it had missed a stair.
Violet whispered, “Oh my God.”
Fiona muttered, “He looks like a lumberjack.”
And they both watched me.
Watched the way my breath caught.
The way my fingers tightened around the cup.
The way my chest lifted, as if recognizing something before my brain did.
I quickly looked away, but it was too late.
My sisters had seen everything.
“You’re in for it,” Violet said softly.
“You’re in so much trouble,” Fiona added.
I sank into the booth like gravity had increased specifically for me.
“I am not,” I lied.
“Uh-huh,” Violet said.
“Nope,” Fiona agreed. “Definitely not. Just heart-skipping, breath-pausing, full-inflammatory-response when you see him.”
“That could be allergies,” I hissed. “Spring is on the horizon, whether the weather agrees or not.”
“Sienna,” Violet said, sipping her latte with infuriating calm, “you’re allergic to your own feelings.”
I groaned and dropped my gaze to the table.
They leaned in, whispering dramatically.
“This is worse than when she liked Jonathan Martin in eighth grade,” Fiona whispered.
“No,” Violet said. “She didn’t stop breathing around Jonathan Martin.”
My voice came out muffled against the table. “Stop talking.”
“You’re blushing,” Fiona crooned.
“It’s the heat from the coffee.”
“The coffee is iced.”
“It’s a chemical reaction.”
“Uh-huh,” Violet said again.
I lifted my head slightly. “Listen. I can handle him. Professionally.”
“You can’t even handle thinking about his flannel shirt,” Fiona said.
“I can too!”
“What color was it?” she asked.
“Green plaid.”
Their mouths fell open.
“Oh no,” Violet breathed. “She notices details.”
Fiona fanned herself. “The man is inside her visual cortex.”
I slammed my hands over my ears. “Nope. Done. Leaving. Goodbye.”
But I didn’t get to leave because the jingle from the door sounded.
And this time?
He walked inside.
Carson stepped through the door, shaking snow from his hair, completely unaware of the emotional meltdown he’d just detonated across the table.
The man was a walking avalanche.
My sisters stared at him.
Then they stared at me.
And all three of us knew, with terrifying clarity—
I truly was doomed.
Carson stepped up to the counter, ordered an Americano without milk or sugar, because, of course, he would drink coffee like a man preparing for winter combat, and turned.
And saw us.
Saw me.
My ribcage went tight, like something inside me had been cinched. He nodded politely at my sisters, but when his eyes met mine, something in his expression softened. Just barely. A warm flicker. A recognition.
I looked away so fast I might have sprained my neck.
“Sienna,” Fiona whispered behind her cup, “he’s staring at you.”
“No, he’s not.”
“He’s absolutely staring,” Violet confirmed. “He’s smiling, too. A tiny, private smile.”
“Stop narrating!” I hissed.
But it was too late.
Carson approached our table.
Slowly.
Casually.
Like a man who had zero idea he was personally responsible for my blood pressure rising every time he appeared.
“Good morning,” he said, standing at the edge of the booth with that calm, steady voice that should be illegal before noon.
“Morning!” Violet chirped.
“Hey, Carson,” Fiona said brightly.
I said nothing.
Because my vocal cords were locked behind a firewall of panic.
He held his Americano like it was part of him. No additions. No flavoring. Just black, hot, functional caffeine. It made me want to evaporate into steam.
Violet smiled up at him. “Are you feeling good about our first guests of the season? The honeymoon couple?”
“Yes,” Carson said. “Looking forward to it.”
His eyes flicked toward me again.
Oops.
My stomach flipped. My brain scrambled for something to say, anything to make me seem like a normal coworker instead of a malfunctioning woodland creature.
“We should do a dry hump,” I blurted.
Silence.
Absolute, catastrophic silence.
Carson blinked.
But then Violet coughed and choked. Fiona slapped both hands over her mouth. Abby dropped a spoon behind the counter.
A man reading a newspaper two tables away slowly lowered it, as if he were watching daytime television.
My soul left my body, hopped in a canoe, and paddled away.
I was bright red. Nuclear red. Stoplight red. Fire-hydrant red.
Carson’s eyebrow lifted, slow and devastating. “A… what?”
“No,” I yelped. “No no no NO. Not that. Not…what I said. I didn’t mean that. No dry humps. Dry humping. None of it.”
His lips pressed together like he was fighting a smile. “All right.”
“I meant a dry run,” I practically shouted. “A dry RUN. With equipment. Without guests. Just us… I mean not us us… I mean the two of us doing lodge things, guide things, hiking things, not that kind of thing.”
Fiona collapsed sideways in her chair, wheezing. Violet was crying into her latte. Abby had both hands on the counter, waiting for what came next.
“Understood,” Carson said, though by the look on his face, he understood nothing except that I had reached peak disaster.
I attempted to sit still with dignity.
Failed.
Attempted to swallow air normally.
Failed.
Attempted not to picture Carson dry-humping anything.
Failed spectacularly.
“Anyway,” I squeaked, “a trial run of the trail is what I meant.”
Carson wrapped both hands around his coffee cup. “A trial run makes sense.”
“Of course it does,” I muttered. “I’m a professional.”
Violet whispered, “A professional dry h—”
“Finish that sentence, and I will push you into the lake,” I hissed.
Carson definitely heard that because the corner of his mouth lifted again. Just a hint. Just a two-timing millimeter that made something warm bloom in my stomach.
“So,” Fiona said, with the chaos of a Harper sister who enjoyed watching me perish, “when do you two want to do your… dry run?”
She waggled her eyebrows.
I kicked her under the table so hard she yelped.
Carson pretended not to notice the murder occurring between siblings. “Whenever works for Sienna.”
I froze.
He was deferring to me.
Like I wasn’t a walking embarrassment, a tornado ready to pull all the chaos into my orbit, and had actual authority and professionalism.
“Tomorrow morning,” I forced out. “At sunrise. Unless that’s too early.”
He shook his head. “I prefer early.”
Of course he did.
He probably thrived at sunrise. Probably absorbed sunlight like a pine tree and emitted competence.
“Great,” I said. “Perfect. Wonderful. We’ll, um… dry run the trail.”
My sisters burst into giggles again.
Carson took a slow sip of his black Americano. “Sounds good.”
He smiled in a way that told me the universe had far too much invested in this thing between us. It wasn’t a mockery or amusement at my expense. It was something warmer. Something that made the air around us feel thicker.
“See you then,” he said.
My heart skipped as he walked toward the door, flannel stretching in all the ways flannel was not meant to stretch, shoulders broad beneath the puffer coat, and boots steady in the slush.
Every step made my chest feel tighter.
The jingle of the door echoed as he left.
Violet stared at me.
Fiona stared at me.
I stared at the table, wondering how soon I could legally change my name and flee the country.
“Sienna,” Violet whispered. “You’re toast.”
“And Carson is the butter,” Fiona added.
And I knew, with a certainty that fizzled all the way to my toes, that they were right.
I was so unbelievably doomed.