Chapter Twenty-Three
Sienna
The sun was spraying long gold strokes, warming the patches of earth the snow refused to surrender.
“This is beautiful!” Emma squealed, throwing her arms out as if she intended to hug the entire forest. “Jake, look! We’re really doing this!”
Jake leaned in and kissed the top of her beanie. “Best honeymoon ever.”
Carson and I exchanged a look, one part amusement, one part dread, and at least three parts please don’t notice how weird we are.
“Let’s get you two set up,” I said brightly, smoothing my hair. “We’ll help with your tent first, then go over some general camping stuff, cooking safety, and tomorrow’s hike.”
Emma gasped as if I’d offered her a baby deer. “You two have such a seamless system. Like a well-oiled… married couple.”
I froze.
Carson froze.
She beamed at him. “I hope my husband will look at me like that a year from now.”
My brain slammed against the inside of my skull. Husband. Husband. Husband?!
Carson opened his mouth, probably to correct her, which, yes, would have been the professional thing to do. Still, she barreled ahead, chattering about how romantic it must be to work side by side in the wilderness, trusting each other completely.
Carson closed his mouth again.
Jake nodded in approval. “You can always tell a good marriage by how well they communicate.”
Communicate.
Right. Yes. Absolutely.
Carson and I communicated constantly. Never mind the part where we’d practically combusted in the office 24 hours ago.
Carson glanced at me, expression flat but eyes sparkling with silent panic. I gave a tiny shrug, the universal sign for I have no idea how to stop this runaway canoe either.
We guided the Butterfields through the tent setup, which was equal parts adorable and chaotic. Jake tried to insert the poles backward. Emma held the rainfly upside down.
But they were enthusiastic, and enthusiasm goes a long way in the wilderness.
Carson knelt beside Jake, helping him straighten the tent frame with patient efficiency. I worked with Emma and managed to correct her grip on the mallet before she accidentally knocked out her own tooth. Every minute or two, Emma commented like:
“You two must be incredible at conflict resolution.”
or
“I love how in sync you are. Total couple goals.”
or the gem:
“Do you ever get tired of being so cute together?”
I nearly swallowed a tent stake.
When their shelter was finally up, Jake wrapped an arm around Emma and said, “Okay, I’m ready to help you two now. I feel like a pro.”
My stomach pitched. Carson scratched the back of his neck. “Uh, actually we—”
“We brought two tents,” I said quickly, grabbing the smaller bag from my pack.
“Two?” Emma repeated, wide-eyed and scandalized in the way only a newly married person could be. “But you’re a couple.”
“Right,” I said, and immediately regretted it. “I mean…well, we…”
Carson cut in smoothly, “She snores.”
I snapped my head toward him. “I do not.”
He shrugged. “Pretty sure you do.”
“I absolutely do not snore.”
Emma giggled. “This is adorable.”
Jake nodded seriously. “Every couple has quirks.”
I stared at Carson, trying to telepathically communicate: "You are the human embodiment of chaos."
He stared back, silently responding, You’re the one who panicked first.
“You two have such a fun vibe.” Emma grinned, sipping some water.
The vibe.
Our vibe.
Our fake married vibe.
I felt a sudden rush of dread and realization. If we corrected them now, if we said, Hey, we’re not married, we’re just coworkers who happen to keep kissing each other’s faces by accident… the Butterfields might think we were flirting irresponsibly during their trip.
The lodge prided itself on professionalism. This was our first official retreat of the season. The Sunshine Breakfast Club ladies read every single review as if it were scripture.
And I could already see the headline:
ONE STAR: Our guides spent the entire weekend making heart eyes at each other. No one trusts a guide who can’t keep their pants…er, tents…in order.
Nope.
Nope. Nope. Nope.
I grabbed Carson’s sleeve and dragged him a few steps away.
“Quick question,” I hissed. “Is it better for our jobs if they think we’re married?”
He paused, then slowly nodded. “As horrifying as this is… yes. It is absolutely better.”
“Okay.” I inhaled deeply. “So we let them think we’re married.”
“We do.”
“And we share a tent.”
“Apparently.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Don’t look so happy about this.”
“I’m not happy.” His mouth twitched. “I’m just… amused.”
I jabbed him with my finger. “Focus.”
He exhaled slowly. “Fine. Married guides it is.”
We turned back to the Butterfields and set up our shared tent while Emma narrated every step as if filming a wildlife documentary. I pretended my heart wasn’t sprinting. Carson pretended he wasn’t enjoying watching me unravel.
At one point, we both reached to stabilize the tent pole at the same time, our hands brushing. Electricity snapped through me, subtle but unmistakable. He looked at me, quiet intensity flickering behind his calm facade.
I looked away so fast my braid whipped like a lasso.
“Teamwork,” Carson said mildly.
“Uh-huh,” I squeaked.
Inside the tent, things only got worse.
Two sleeping pads.
Two sleeping bags.
One extremely small amount of personal space.
Carson crouched inside, adjusting straps and smoothing wrinkles like a man completely unaware of the fact that my entire body was about to spontaneously combust.
I crawled in to help and immediately regretted it. His shoulder brushed mine. The tent seemed to shrink. His body radiated warmth, and I absolutely did not stare at his hands.
“You okay?” he murmured.
“No,” I whispered, my voice thinner than oxygen.
He glanced toward the open flap where Emma and Jake were arranging their camp chairs. “Think they’ll buy it?”
“They believe we met under the pines and fell in love,” I hissed. “They’ll buy anything.”
He smirked. “Could be worse.”
“How?”
“They could demand a vow renewal.”
“Shut up.”
He laughed softly, the sound low and warm, and the tent became suddenly, painfully small.
Emma peeked inside. “Awwww! Look at you two making your nest together. One tent is the way to go.”
I nearly inhaled my own tongue.
Carson, bless him, or maybe curse him, played along beautifully.
“Nothing better than getting to sleep next to your wife,” he said, tightening a strap calmly.
“But now that we’re sharing a tent, you’ll have to sleep with one eye open.” I grinned.
Carson didn’t miss a beat. “The truth is that she doesn’t snore. She elbows me in the middle of the night, and eighty percent of the time, I get a black eye.”
My mouth dropped open.
Emma melted. “You two are perfect.”
Carson shot me a sideways glance. “Tell her that.”
When Emma finally wandered back to their tent, humming, I sagged onto my sleeping pad.
“I’m going to die,” I whispered.
Carson stretched out beside me, but we weren’t touching, though I could feel heat radiating from him like the world’s most distracting space heater.
“You’re not going to die.”
“No, I am. I can feel it. This is how I go.”
He lay back on his elbows, head tilted, watching me unravel like some kind of wilderness Shakespeare tragedy. “You’re being dramatic.”
“I learned from the best,” I fired back.
His smile was slow and devastating. “Are you saying I’m dramatic?”
“Emotionally? Yes.”
He laughed again, and I had to look away for the sake of my pulse.
We finished setting up camp and stepped outside into the crisp late afternoon air. The Butterfields walked hand in hand to admire the view, leaving us momentarily alone in the clearing.
“You know this is going to be tricky,” I said quietly.
“The married thing?” he asked.
“No. The… not kissing thing.”
He exhaled, gaze lowering to my lips for half a second before he caught himself. “Yeah. I know.”
“We’re professionals,” I reminded myself more than him.
“We are.”
“We have to behave.”
“Absolutely.”
We stared at each other, but neither of us looked convinced.
After a breath that felt too long, I said, “Okay. Let’s go check the perimeter before dinner.”
He nodded. But before he stepped away, his fingers brushed mine—accidental, subtle, and yet somehow more intimate than anything that had happened today.
I felt a shiver skate up my spine.
He felt it too; I could tell by the way his eyes softened, the tension simmering quietly beneath his calm exterior.
“Mrs. Harper,” he murmured under his breath with just enough teasing to ruin me.
I whispered back, “Stop calling me that.”
The corners of his mouth lifted. “Not a chance.”
We walked toward the treeline, pretending we weren’t burning up inside our jackets, pretending we weren’t two professionals pretending to be married while pretending we weren’t falling into something far more complicated.
Tomorrow would be harder, and tonight already felt impossible.
And somehow, impossibly…I couldn’t wait.
As the Butterfields wandered off to admire the overlook and take approximately a thousand honeymoon selfies, I forced myself back inside our tent to organize our shared space. Really, I was preparing for a meltdown.
Carson followed me a moment later, ducking under the flap with that maddeningly calm presence of his.
I spun around so fast I nearly tripped over a sleeping pad. “Okay. We need ground rules.”
He leaned a shoulder casually against the tent pole, which should not have been allowed. No one should look that good inside a nylon triangle.
“Ground rules,” he repeated, voice all steady warmth. “Go on.”
I pointed at the sleeping bags, which lay innocently side by side. Too close. Far, far too close.
“Number one. Separate sleeping bags.”
His brow lifted. “I assumed so.”
“Good,” I said quickly. “Great. Good. I just…wanted to make that clear.”
He nodded slowly. “Crystal clear.”
The problem was that he didn’t sound convinced. He sounded like a man humoring a flustered woman who was tripping over her own heartbeat.
“And…and we keep them spaced apart.” I gestured again, flapping my hands like startled wings.
He looked down at the bags, then back at me. “You want measurable distance?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
I blinked. “What?”
“How much space?” he asked, straight-faced. “Six inches? A foot? Do you require a divider? A safety cone?”
Heat flared up my neck. “Carson!”
He bit back a smile but failed spectacularly.
“I’m asking for clarity. These are the ground rules, right?”
“I hate you,” I muttered.
“You don’t,” he said, way too softly.
My knees almost buckled.
I cleared my throat. “Rule number two…no… touching.”
His eyebrow arched. “At all?”
“Yes.”
“What if it’s accidental?”
“Carson.”
He stepped closer, but not close enough to break any rules, damn him. Just close enough that my pulse tripped over itself.
“You’re the one making the rules,” he said gently. “I’m just making sure I understand the limitations.”
Limitations.
As if anything about him had limits.
I swallowed. “No touching. Not intentional.”
He nodded. “So you’re assuming there will be unintentional touching.”
“That’s not… That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you meant.”
“No, it’s not!”
“Sienna.”
The way my name rolled out of his mouth made every nerve in my spine light up.
I crossed my arms to keep from doing something reckless. “Fine. Maybe tents are small. Maybe things shift. But we will maintain professionalism.”
“Of course we will.” He crawled into the narrow space between the bags, slow and deliberate. “I’m very professional.”
I backed up until my ankles hit my sleeping pad. “You are not making this easy.”
“That’s not what you want,” he said.
The air between us tightened.
My voice broke into a whisper. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
We stared at each other in the dim golden light leaking through the nylon walls, breath shallow, hearts loud, the outside world fading into quiet wilderness.
He reached up like he might touch my cheek and stopped, inches away.
His voice dropped. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”
I couldn’t.
I wouldn’t.
But I didn’t kiss him either.
Not yet.
Instead, I whispered, “Rule number three… no more kisses.”
His mouth curved slowly, wickedly. “That’s the rule you’re going to break first.”
My heart somersaulted.
And God help me…
He was absolutely right.