Chapter Thirteen
Sienna
By the time we reached the campsite, the sun was pressing low against the ridgeline, throwing warm orange light between the pines.
The snow here had packed hard through the late winter, but patches of brown earth peeked through, which was a hopeful sign that things might thaw before the honeymoon couple set foot on this trail.
I was exhausted, but it wasn’t from the hike.
It hadn’t been from the icy terrain or the lingering adrenaline from the wolves or bear family.
It was from him.
From the silent orbit we kept swinging through—too close, too aware, too careful.
My pack dug into my shoulders as I dropped it beside the fire ring. “Well. We made it.”
“Yes,” Carson said, scanning the clearing. “This spot will work well for the couple.”
“Sure,” I said. “Nothing says romance like getting stalked by nature on the way up.”
He shot me a sideways glance. “You weren’t stalked.”
“Says the man who literally stepped in front of me like a human tank twice.”
“That was a precaution.”
“It was protective.”
“It was both.”
Damn him.
He said things too calmly. Too straightforwardly. Too… intentionally without being intentional. As if he didn’t even realize the effect he had.
He set down his pack and knelt to clear the fire pit. His gloves swept the ash basin in clean arcs, and I had to look away because watching Carson work with his hands should have been illegal in at least twelve states.
Focus, Sienna.
Right.
Camp setup.
I reached for the tent bag on my pack and pulled it free with a little too much frustration.
“So, the couple will have this one,” I said. “We’ll test it. Make sure the poles aren’t bent. Make sure the fly fits. Make sure the seams don’t leak. Basic quality control.”
“Good.”
“Great.”
“Excellent.”
I glared at him. “If you say one more agreeable word in that tone, I’m tossing you off the ridge.”
He raised one eyebrow. “Tone?”
“You know the tone.”
“I truly don’t.”
I mimicked him: “Good. Great. Excellent.”
His mouth almost twitched.
Almost.
I upended the tent bag too quickly, and the poles spilled in a tangle.
I sighed. “Yep. I’m killing it out here.”
Carson knelt beside me. “Let me help.”
“No,” I said too fast. “I’ve got it.”
The pole in my hand immediately snapped back and hit me in the cheek.
He exhaled slowly. “You’ve got it.”
“Shut up.”
He unzipped his jacket and flung it to a rock because, apparently, he was Superman, and plucked the poles effortlessly from my hands and began assembling the frame with the competence of someone who’d done this a thousand times.
I told myself I wasn’t watching his forearms under his flannel as he worked.
I lied to myself.
After ten silent, torturous seconds of admiring him in pure agony, I blurted, “So, uh—you’ve guided a lot of trips.”
He nodded. “Yes.”
“Ever guided with… with another woman?”
That was not what I meant to say.
I froze.
He paused mid-pole extension. “No.”
“No?” I repeated, as if I hadn’t heard him.
“No,” he said again, eyes meeting mine. “Never.”
I felt something hot and embarrassing twist in my stomach.
Why did that matter to me?
Why should that matter?
I didn’t subscribe to the idea of relationships. I didn’t want to care whether Carson had shared a trail with a woman, a moose, or a talking pine tree.
But the thought of him being alone in the wilderness with another woman made something at the base of my throat ache and kind of tighten.
The feeling startled me and then appalled me.
“What about you?” he asked.
“What about me?” I echoed too quickly.
“Have you ever guided with a male partner?”
I flailed mentally. “Um—no. Not… not like this.”
Not with the constant tension.
Not with the weird gravitational pull.
Not with the terrifying awareness of every breath he took.
“So,” he said quietly, “this is new for both of us.”
I swallowed. “Unfortunately.”
His brow furrowed slightly. “Unfortunately.”
“That came out wrong,” I rushed. “I mean, it didn’t come out wrong, but it came out wrong in the wrong direction. Not because it’s you, but because it’s… you. And I’m me. And the universe is laughing at me personally.”
He stared.
I stared back.
Both of us were trapped in some invisible current neither of us understood.
He broke it first, returning to the tent poles. “Let’s finish this.”
“Right. Yes. Tent. Romance for the guests. No romance for us. Perfect.”
He paused again.
Oh no.
I wanted to throw myself into the fire pit.
We finished erecting the tent with only three more terrible fumbles from me—once when my glove slipped, once when I tripped over a snowshoe, and once when I turned too quickly and collided with Carson’s chest.
His hands caught my arms. Steady. Warm through the gloves.
“You good?” he asked quietly.
“Yes,” I squeaked. “No. Yes.”
I stepped back so fast I nearly toppled a second time.
“We’re testing the tent,” I said, desperate for a topic shift. “Then the fire. Then the food. Then the sleeping bag configuration.”
His eyebrow lifted. “Sleeping bag configuration.”
“For the guests!” I snapped. “Not for us! God, why do I keep doing this?”
He said nothing, but his eyes warmed.
I hated that.
And loved that.
And hated that I loved it.
By the time the tent was fully set up, the temperature had begun to drop, and the twilight glow deepened to a soft blue. Carson worked on the fire with smooth, practiced motions. I knelt beside him with the cook pot and dehydrated meals, trying not to look at his hands again.
“So,” he said as he struck the ferro rod, sparks flying, “tell me about Alaska.”
The question surprised me. Not because he asked, but because of the way he asked gently and curiously, without prying.
I blew out a breath. “It was… quiet.”
“Quiet is good.”
“Usually. But this time it was quiet inside my own head, too. And that? That was strange.”
He looked at me sideways. “Strange how?”
“Strange like… I wasn’t trying to outrun anything. Strange, like I could just be.” I shrugged. “Mortimer the moose helped.”
“I’m not sure I want the details of that.”
“You do,” I said, smiling faintly.
He returned the smile, subtle but real. “Maybe.”
“What about you?” I asked, stirring the pot. “Any impressive wildlife friends?”
He shook his head. “No moose. No meaningful deer encounters. Just clients who carried scented candles into the mountains.”
I laughed, a full warm rush of it. “I still can’t believe that one.”
“That makes two of us.”
He poured hot water over the meal packets while I tended the fire.
But something shifted, a softening and a warmth that wasn’t from the flames.
“So,” I said casually. “Any… other guides you’ve worked closely with? Anyone you stayed in contact with afterward?”
I hated that I asked it.
I hated the tightening sensation in my chest that anticipated the answer.
Carson shook his head slowly, eyes on the fire. “I keep to myself.”
“Always?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
The question slipped out before I could stop it.
His entire body stilled.
I realized instantly I’d hit something personal, and he didn’t look up.
His lack of reaction told me more than an answer would have.
“Sorry,” I whispered. “That was… too personal.”
He shook his head slightly. “It’s fine.”
But it wasn’t.
Something heavy flickered behind his eyes.
I felt my own walls shoot back up.
It was instinct. Protect myself before I cared too much. Before I asked too much. Before this soft, crackling moment between us turned into something that mattered.
He cleared his throat and handed me a food pouch. “Eat.”
“Bossy,” I muttered.
“Efficient.”
Fair enough.
We sat near the fire, eating in quiet. The flames danced gold and orange, throwing shadows across Carson’s face. It made him look different. More open. More human. Less guarded.
Which was dangerous.
Very dangerous.
“So,” he said after a few minutes. “Tomorrow we test the ridge traverse.”
“Yep,” I said. “It’s slippery as hell.”
“Good. That means the guests will love it.”
I barked a laugh. “You seem to forget they’re newlyweds from Chicago.”
“They’ll be fine.”
“They’ll flounder.”
He smiled, and my heart soared and plummeted all at once.
After we finished eating, I stood to gather my things.
Bad idea.
My foot caught on a root under the snow.
I lurched forward.
He caught me.
Again.
His hands wrapped around my waist, steady and warm even through my coat. My palms landed flat against his chest. For a full breath, we were chest-to-chest, breath mingling in frosty air, firelight warming both our faces.
I looked up.
He looked down.
Everything inside me went molten.
No words moved.
No sounds existed.
Just heat.
And breath.
And awareness.
Terrifying, impossible awareness.
Too much.
I stepped back quickly, the cold rushing between us like a slap.
“Great,” I said too brightly. “Fantastic. Graceful as always.”
“Like a gazelle.” He didn’t smile this time.
He just watched me and saw more than I wanted him to see.
I yanked my gaze away. “We should set up our sleeping situation. I’ve got my tent, and you’ve got yours.”
“Agreed,” he said, but his voice had dipped—low, rougher, something threaded with restraint.
“We’re using separate sleeping bags,” I clarified unnecessarily three times.
“I assumed that, especially with separate tents.”
“Good.”
“Good,” he echoed, but we both knew nothing felt good or simple or contained anymore.
I moved toward the tent and went inside. I glanced at my bag, grabbing the down-filled mummy bag from its stuff sack.
Carson worked in silence in the next tent over.
And yet everything between us was loud.
The fire crackled outside, and the wind whistled.
Somewhere far off, a lone owl called.
And under all that, my heartbeat climbed faster than it ever should.
When I finally zipped my sleeping bag halfway and crawled in for a test, I heard him doing the same a few feet away.
Close.
Too close.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
This was supposed to be professional.
It was supposed to be straightforward.
It was supposed to be a dry run.
But after the bears and the wolves, I didn’t exactly want my own tent thirty feet away from his.
And now?
Now the forest felt too still.
The night was too intimate, and Carson was too near.
And me?
I was too alive.
Too aware.
Too terrified of what would happen if this continued.
I swallowed hard and whispered into the cold air:
“This is fine. Totally fine. Everything is perfectly—”
A deep voice cut through the dark.
“Sienna.”
My breath caught.
“Yes?” I whispered.
A beat.
Then another, and in a tone that hit every nerve in my body.
“We need to talk.”