Chapter Thirty-Three
Sienna
The problem with my brain was that it didn’t shut up.
Not at midnight, or two in the morning.
It didn’t behave at four, when normal people were asleep, but my eyeballs hadn’t given up.
And definitely not now, as I paced like a feral raccoon across the floor at Honey Leaf Lodge, whisper-arguing with myself as though reason would suddenly appear if I just walked aggressively enough.
I wasn’t going to run.
I wasn’t.
I absolutely wasn’t.
I refused.
Had I considered it? Sure.
Had I mentally mapped which flights to Iceland were cheapest in April? Maybe.
Had I imagined a dramatic exit where I left a note saying search for me only if you dare? Yes, and it included glitter.
But no.
I wasn’t leaving.
Couldn’t leave.
Not because of Carson—
Nope, not him, absolutely not him—
But because of everything else.
I had responsibilities.
Guests booked for spring and summer.
Trails to scout.
New gear orders to prioritize.
Animals to keep out of the lobby.
A lodge relying on me to do my job.
I wasn’t the kind of person who bailed when things got difficult.
I wasn’t a runner—
…except for every time something emotional happened.
Then I was an Olympic sprinter.
And now?
Now I was dealing with the one situation guaranteed to trigger both my fight-or-flight impulse and my libido at the same time:
Sleeping with Carson Reed.
God.
I covered my face with both hands and groaned into my palms.
I didn’t do this.
I wasn’t this girl.
I didn’t hop into sleeping bags with men I barely knew.
I didn’t jump the intimacy line like it was a crosswalk and bolt into the traffic of feelings.
I was responsible.
Careful.
Emotionally avoidant in a dignified way.
But apparently, present-day Sienna had tossed those rules straight into the lake.
Because I had slept with him.
The man I barely knew.
The man I had been assigned to work with for six months.
The man who had held me in the morning, as if he didn’t want to let go.
And worse—
I’d liked it.
Loved it.
Thought about it constantly since.
Heat crawled up my neck.
Because no matter how much I tried to keep things PG in my head, my brain would not stop replaying the part where he was very much not PG. And how I’d felt him. All of him.
And it had been—
My face burned so hard I could roast marshmallows on it.
He was… substantial.
Perfectly endowed.
Gifted by nature.
Built for outdoor survival and ruining my emotional stability.
Every time I closed my eyes, my thoughts whispered, It was hanging quite perfectly, wasn’t it?
I flung a pillow across the room at the intrusive voice.
“I’m a professional woman,” I hissed at no one.
The pillow hit the wall with a sad flop.
I dropped onto a chair, burying my head in my knees. “What am I doing?”
I tried to be rational.
He and I barely knew each other.
We were still in the early stages—the light, getting-to-know-you stage. The stage where questions like “Do you like raisins in trail mix?” were appropriate, not “How do you feel about the deep intimacy of sharing a sleeping bag and having your soul rearranged by a kiss?”
But no.
I had rocketed past the early stage.
Skipped the medium stage.
Catapulted into the “How’s it hanging?” stage.
And yes, very well, thank you, this is why my brain is broken.
I flopped backward, staring at the ceiling.
Maybe I could compartmentalize.
Maybe I could treat it like a blip.
A moment of wilderness-induced insanity.
People did that, right?
Temporary lapses.
Blame the altitude, except we were in Wisconsin, which was as flat as a pancake for the most part. I mean, there were hills, and we might call them mountains…but…
Blame the snow.
Blame the fact that one night in a tent with that man was like tossing a lit match on gasoline.
But Carson wasn’t treating it like a blip.
And that scared me more than anything.
His voice last night was branded into the inside of my skull.
Because I don’t want to pretend it’s not happening.
Because complicated isn’t the same as bad.
Because every time I look at you, I want—
I refolded a blanket and squealed into it.
I couldn’t pretend I didn’t feel something.
I couldn’t pretend the tent was insignificant.
I couldn’t pretend that the way he looked at me didn’t make my lungs lose structural integrity.
But I also couldn’t pretend I was ready for any of this.
Feelings?
Vulnerability?
Possibility?
Those were dangerous terrains, steeper than cliffs, slipperier than ice, and far more terrifying than any wildlife I’d ever encountered.
Feelings had always been my bear in the woods.
I got up again and paced.
“Okay, Sienna,” I muttered. “You’re logical. You’re grounded. You can climb literal mountains, you can handle a man.”
The universe laughed at me.
I marched to the kitchen and into the mudroom, pulled out my running shoes, and put them on.
Running didn’t solve emotional spirals, but it delayed them.
I stomped down the hallway, ignoring Violet calling, “Are you speed-walking away from your problems again?”
“Yes!” I yelled back. “It’s called cardio!”
I escaped outside into the brisk morning air and started jogging down the path toward the cabins, the familiar crunch of gravel grounding me. Each breath lifted some tension; each step steadied my pulse.
By the time I hit the curve past the maple trees, I’d almost convinced myself I was fine.
Fine-ish.
Okay-adjacent.
Until I saw someone sitting on the split-log bench behind cabin four.
Carson.
Of course.
Because fate had my location settings enabled.
He was hunched slightly forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the woods like it was the only thing holding his thoughts together. His button-up was gone; he’d changed into a soft black thermal that stretched across his chest and arms in ways my mind absolutely did not need cataloged.
But the real problem was his expression.
Quiet.
Thoughtful.
Tender in a way that hit too close.
I slowed to a walk.
He turned.
And the way his face shifted when he saw me, like he was relieved, made my stomach flip.
“Morning,” he said.
I swallowed. “Morning.”
He studied me a little too carefully. “You okay?”
“Yep. Totally. Fantastic.” I gestured vaguely at the trail. “Just… running.”
“From what?”
I froze.
He had the audacity to look calm.
I folded my arms. “Excuse me?”
“Sienna,” he said softly, “you only run like that when you’re spiraling.”
“I don’t spiral.”
“You are currently spiraling.”
I pointed at him. “Stop reading me.”
“You’re very readable.”
“That is rude.”
“It’s true.”
I groaned. “Carson.”
He stood and stepped toward me slowly, unthreatening, but with purpose.
Carson folded his arms across his chest. “We need to talk.”
“Nope,” I said instantly, stepping back. “No talking. Talking leads to thinking. Thinking leads to feelings. Feelings lead to heart explosions, and I am not qualified for emotional CPR.”
His mouth twitched. “Sienna—”
“I am stable,” I insisted. “Grounded. Rooted like a tree. A very calm, very emotionally detached pine tree.”
“You ran out of the lodge wearing one sock, and your shirt is backward.”
I looked down.
…dammit.
I yanked my shirt straight. “This is fashion.”
He raised an eyebrow.
Silence stretched.
Charged.
Warm.
An inch too close.
“Okay,” I said finally, exhaling. “Fine. Maybe I’m… having a moment.”
“A moment,” he repeated.
“Yes.”
“How long is the moment?”
“Several days,” I whispered.
He moved closer.
I didn’t move away.
“Sienna,” he murmured, voice low, “I don’t regret anything that happened.”
My heart tried to climb out of my chest.
“I do,” I blurted.
He stiffened, expression shuttering.
“No!” I yelped. “I mean, yes! But no! I meant emotionally, I regret it because it caused emotions, not because of the tent! The tent was… I mean, objectively, it was…”
I flailed. “It was hanging quite perfectly! And that was the problem!”
He blinked.
I slapped both hands over my mouth.
Oh God. Oh God. Someone teleport me to Alaska immediately.
Carson’s jaw flexed as he fought a laugh unsuccessfully. “Sienna…”
“You didn’t hear that,” I said from behind my hands.
His voice dropped. “I definitely did.”
I covered my whole face. “I’m never speaking again.”
He gently pulled one of my hands away, thumb brushing the back of my knuckles. “Look at me.”
I did.
Slowly.
Barely.
He stepped closer until we were toe to toe. “You’re not the only one dealing with feelings.”
My breath stopped.
“I’ve been trying to figure out what this is, too. I’m not asking you to define it. I’m not asking you to decide anything right now. I’m just… not going to pretend it didn’t mean something.”
His fingers traced a slow line over my wrist.
“And I don’t think you want to pretend either.”
I wanted to deny it.
I really did.
But the truth rose up like a tide.
“No,” I whispered. “I don’t want to pretend.”
His jaw softened, and he smiled.
“But I’m scared,” I added.
“I know,” he said.
“And confused.”
“I know.”
“And occasionally attracted to you in ways that should be illegal.”
He smiled slowly in that devastating way. “I know that too.”
Silence.
A breath away from something dangerous and real.
“Come on. Walk with me.”
We walked the long trail, our shoulders brushing every few minutes like magnets misbehaving. The night before hovered between us with the almost-kiss and the confessions on the edge of our tongues.
I didn’t know where this was going.
I didn’t know if I was ready. I didn’t know if he was either.
But as our hands brushed, both tentative and electric, I realized something important.
I wasn’t running.
Not this time.
Not from him.
Not from whatever this was becoming.
And maybe that was the first step toward something worth staying for.
We walked along the narrow path beside the lake, following the curve of the lake’s shoreline where winter’s grip had finally begun to loosen.
Meltwater trickled between the rocks, little streams weaving their way into the larger pools.
The sunlight brushed the surface of the water with faint peach and gold, diffused by thin clouds drifting in slowly from the west. It was beautiful in that quiet, understated Wisconsin way.
It wasn’t dramatic, just steady and real.
Carson kept his hands in his pockets as we walked, but every few steps our arms brushed, a brief whisper of contact that made my pulse lift.
I tried to breathe evenly, tried to act normal.
But normal had become slippery lately, especially around him.
He seemed aware of it, too. His posture wasn’t tense, but he wasn’t fully relaxed either.
It was the stance of someone who was trying to be careful, not because he didn’t want to reach for me, but because he really, genuinely did.
We reached a cluster of birch trees where their white trunks created a loose circle.
He slowed, letting the quiet settle, then glanced at me with a softness that made the back of my knees feel alarmingly unreliable.
For a moment, I thought he might stop, might turn, might say something that would push us past the edge of this fragile, almost-state.
Instead, he slid his gaze toward the lake.
“You know,” he said, “I was thinking earlier that this place feels different…not just the lodge, but the whole town. I’ve been in a lot of outdoor communities, and none of them felt like this. There’s something rooted here.”
He hesitated, searching for a word. When he couldn’t find one, he let the thought settle between us instead of forcing it.
I nudged a small pebble with the toe of my shoe. “Buttercup Lake is like that. It grabs onto people. Sometimes a little too hard.”
“And you?” he asked quietly. “Does it grab onto you too hard?”
I didn’t answer right away. The breeze caught a loose strand of hair and brushed it across my cheek. He reached up without thinking and stopped halfway, lowering his hand before he touched me. The restraint was so gentle it hurt.
“I don’t know,” I finally said. “Maybe that’s why I keep running off to other states to climb mountains. It’s easier to love a place when you don’t stay long enough to belong to it.”
He looked at me as though he already understood the part I hadn’t said aloud.
“And what about people?” he asked softly. “Do you stay long enough to belong to them?”
I felt the question all the way to my ribs.
“I don’t know,” I whispered. “But I’m still here. And I just want to add that this is not normally how new-hire orientations go.”
And the small smile that tugged at his mouth wasn’t triumphant, merely grateful and quiet, like he knew that for me, staying was the first real step toward anything at all.