Chapter Thirty-Two
Carson
Easter at the Harper house was… a lot.
Not bad. It wasn’t overwhelming in the way I’d feared. Just full. Big. Loud in all the corners where my life had grown quiet. Warm in ways I hadn’t prepared for.
Dinner had been a circus of ham, red potatoes, grilled sausages, rolls that Fifi kept burning and remaking, four different kinds of salad because no one could agree on a dressing, Louie the goat escaping his pen twice, and Violet casually interrogating me like the FBI had hired her.
But the strangest part wasn’t them.
It was how much I liked it.
How much the chaos reminded me of the last Easter I’d spent with my parents, with the crowded kitchen, mismatched plates, my dad insisting on lighting candles, and my mom laughing at how dramatic he was. I hadn’t realized how vivid that memory still was, how close to the surface it sat.
And being in the Harper house tonight felt like brushing against a bruise I hadn’t known I still carried.
But the bruise didn’t hurt.
It ached more softly now.
After dessert, ranging from pie, pudding, brownies, to something Violet called cloud fluff that looked like whipped sugar and tasted like a sugar coma, people started drifting out of the dining room in ones and twos.
Violet filmed a video tutorial on how to fold napkins into bunny shapes for her website. Fifi tried to glue a fake flower crown to Ben’s head.
And Sienna?
She kept glancing toward the back door.
The air between us had been taut all day. It wasn’t strained, just stretched. Every time she looked at me, it felt like something unspoken hovered between us, something that had been waiting since the tent and the lake and every charged moment after.
When she finally slipped outside, quiet, and quick, I didn’t even hesitate.
I followed.
The night air was cool, carrying the smell of damp pine needles and melted snow. Spring came differently here…slow and stubborn, but hopeful. A few early frogs croaked near the marshy end of the yard.
She walked toward the edge of the property, hands tucked in her jacket pockets, shoulders slightly hunched as though she didn’t know what to do with her own tension.
I caught up beside her. “You okay?”
She startled with a laugh and gave a quick, embarrassed smile.
“Yeah. Just… getting air.”
I nodded. “Me too.”
We fell into step along the gravel path that wound behind the lodge toward the woods. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable but full.
After a minute, I said, “The Butterfields left quite the review.”
Her head snapped up. “I guess they fell for it.”
Her expression shifted from pride to panic to annoyance all at once.
“Maybe it wasn’t much of an act.” My brows lifted.
“We’re professionals,” she corrected, waving her hands.
I smiled. “Is that what you call this?”
“They said we had magnetic chemistry.”
“They might be onto something.”
“And they said we ‘cared for each other with quiet devotion.’”
“Mm-hmm.”
She groaned and covered her face. “Carson, they basically wrote romantic fan fiction about us.”
“I didn’t mind it,” I murmured.
She peeked through her fingers, startled.
I swallowed. “I mean, they liked the trip. That’s what matters.”
But the way her breath caught made something stir in my chest…something too honest, too close to confession.
We walked a little farther into the dark, gravel crunching under our boots. The moonlight filtered through the bare branches, casting shadows that moved whenever the breeze came through.
Finally, she said, “Well… their review pretty much guarantees you’re ready to lead trips on your own.”
Something in her tone made me slow my pace.
Ready to lead on my own. She’d mentioned it the other day. I wasn’t surprised she’d thought it. She was always thinking about the practical side, the business side, the efficiency of pairing versus not pairing us.
But this was more.
A ripple of uncertainty and dread went through me.
“You think I’m ready to go out solo?” I asked. I mean, we both knew I was ready the moment I got here.
She nodded quickly. “Yeah. Definitely. You were great. Calm, competent, the honeymooners loved you. You don’t need me there the whole time. I mean, that was the plan, right? For you to start taking groups on your own? That’s why my family hired you for the season.”
It was logical.
Reasonable.
Professionally sound.
So why did it feel like she’d just shoved me a step backward without meaning to?
“Is that all this is?” I asked quietly.
“What?”
I kept my eyes on the path. “You pushing me to take solo trips? Is it because of what happened between us?”
She froze mid-step.
The night went still around us with no frog croaks, no wind, no distant laughter from the house, only her breath.
Her voice came out small. “What do you mean?”
I turned to face her fully. “Did you get uncomfortable? Did you think putting distance between us would make it easier?”
She swallowed hard. “Carson…”
“Because if that’s why,” I said gently, “you can say it. I won’t be angry. I’ll know my place and stick to it.”
Her eyebrows pulled together. “That’s not fair. You think I don’t want to work with you because of one night?”
I searched her face. “Do you?”
She looked down, scuffing her boot against the gravel. “I think… that night complicates things.”
Complicates.
A neutral word. A safe one.
But her voice cracked almost imperceptibly, giving her away.
I stepped closer. Slowly. Carefully. “Complicated isn’t the same as bad.”
She let out a shaky breath. “Complicated is how people get hurt.”
I felt the truth of that settle between us.
She wasn’t pushing me away because she didn’t want me around.
She was pushing me away because she was scared.
Scared of us.
Scared of feeling too much.
Scared that she couldn’t run if she let this get real.
I softened my voice. “I’m not asking for a declaration. I just want to know if you’re trying to draw a line.”
“I’m not trying to draw anything,” she said, frustrated. “I’m trying to think clearly. And every time I look at you—”
She cut herself off, cheeks flushing.
“Every time you look at me… what?” I asked.
Her arms crossed herself, as if bracing against a wind that wasn’t there. “I lose my ability to think.”
Heat curled low in my stomach.
I took another step forward. “Sienna…”
She backed up half a step. Not because she wanted space, but because she was afraid of the opposite.
“I don’t want to mess things up,” she whispered. “Partnerships, guiding assignments, the whole season… It’s too important.”
“It is,” I said quietly.
Her head snapped up.
I held her gaze.
Her mouth parted. “You…”
I didn’t move closer or touch her. I didn’t push. I just let the truth sit there.
She looked overwhelmed, and I felt bad.
“You didn’t answer my question,” I said softly. “Are you trying to put distance between us because of what happened?”
Her nose scrunched in frustration, and it was adorable, confusing, and distracting.
“I’m not trying to put distance. I’m trying not to… drown.”
That floored me more than it should have. Since I felt the same, and I knew exactly how that felt.
Finally, she exhaled, shoulders sinking.
“You don’t need me on the next few trips. You’re good at what you do. Really good. Honestly, you’re probably better off without me tagging along.”
“Sienna,” I said gently, “I’m not worried about my guiding skills. I’m worried about pushing you away.”
She looked at me again. “I don’t want to make this harder than it already is.”
“It’s only hard,” I murmured, “because we’re pretending it’s not happening.”
She sucked in a breath and looked away.
“Sienna.”
She closed her eyes.
“Sienna,” I said again, quieter now, “look at me.”
She did, and everything stopped.
The whole world pressed in close. The moonlight caught in her hair. A faint breeze lifted a strand across her cheek.
I reached out without thinking and brushed the strand away.
She didn’t move, but her breath hitched.
I let my fingers linger at the curve of her jaw for one heartbeat too long.
She whispered, “We shouldn’t—”
“I know.”
“We’re supposed to keep things professional.”
“I know.”
“This could get messy.”
“I know,” I said again, voice lower now, “but I still want you.”
Her eyes widened.
Thick and electric silence wrapped around us.
And it might have happened then.
I might have leaned in.
She might have swayed closer.
The distance between us might have dissolved entirely.
But her mom’s voice floated through the air. “Dessert round two…wherever you are!”
Sienna jolted backward.
I dropped my hand instantly.
She laughed nervously and shakily. “Well. Looks like we’re being summoned.”
“Sienna—”
“Tomorrow,” she said quickly, retreating another step. “We can talk tomorrow.”
She walked toward the house, stiff but determined, her hair swinging, her shoulders still tense from what almost happened.
I stood there under the moonlight, watching her go, heart pounding, breath uneven, wanting to follow but knowing she needed space.
We had come so close, too close, but not close enough.
Whatever this was between us, it wasn’t cooling off.
It was heating up.
And tomorrow?
Tomorrow might be the day everything finally broke open.