Chapter Thirty-Five #2
His mouth twitched. “I saw your Subaru. Thought I’d say hi.”
“Oh.”
Totally normal. Totally fine. Totally not sweating.
His gaze flicked to the passenger seat. “New pillow?”
I clutched it possessively. “Don’t judge my nesting.”
“I wasn’t judging,” he said, leaning slightly closer. “I was just trying to decide if you’re decorating… or hiding.”
My stomach flipped. “I am absolutely not hiding.”
A slow smile. “You’re literally parked behind a van, so no one can spot your car from the street.”
“I like shade.”
“It’s fifty degrees.”
“Shade is a lifestyle.”
He crossed his arms. “So you’re not avoiding me.”
“No,” I said too quickly.
“So you’re definitely avoiding me.”
“Carson Reed,” I snapped, “I am not hiding from anything. Or anyone. I am simply… running errands.”
“Without going into the store connected to the parking lot you’re hiding behind?”
“I was in the store.”
“I know,” he said, amused. “I watched you crouch behind a shelf of ceramic frogs.”
Blood left my body. Fully evaporated into the atmosphere. “You saw that?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Why didn’t you save me?”
“Because,” he said, “you looked adorable panicking behind amphibians.”
I put my head on the steering wheel. “Whose side are you on?”
He grinned, and my heart did gymnastics.
I forced myself upright. “Okay. Fine. Yes. I’m awkward. Happy now?”
He shook his head, that soft look in his eyes again. “I’m not making fun of you, Sienna.”
“Feels like you’re at least enjoying it a little.”
“A little,” he admitted.
I opened my mouth to reply or flirt or something, but what came out instead was…
“You should take the guided trip this weekend alone.”
The words hit the air like startled birds. Escaped. Irretrievable.
Carson blinked. “Alone?”
I swallowed. “Yes! I mean, no! I mean, yes. You should. I think you’re ready.”
“I noticed that on the board back at the lodge,” he said slowly, head tilting. “Why would I take it alone?”
Because I’m scared.
Because I can’t think straight around you.
Because the Sunshine Breakfast Club has created a romance conspiracy theory with our names on it.
Because I’m terrified of wanting more.
What I said was: “I just think it’s a good… leadership opportunity.”
He narrowed his eyes the tiniest bit. “Sienna.”
“Yes?”
“Are you trying to get rid of me?”
“No,” I squeaked.
He leaned closer to the window, voice lower. “Are you sure?”
I nodded too fast. “Completely. Absolutely. One hundred percent sure.”
A beat passed.
And another.
His gaze warmed. “You’re cute when you lie.”
“I am not lying.”
“You’re practically vibrating.”
“That’s the caffeine. I drank what was left in the pot this morning, and it was like syrup.”
“Whatever you need to tell yourself.”
“Carson.”
He laughed softly, the sound sliding across my nerves in a way that made my knees feel liquid, even though I was sitting.
Then, more seriously, “If you want space, you can tell me.”
I shook my head, throat tight. “It’s not that.”
“Then what is it?”
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
He watched me for a long moment in that steady, patient, and too perceptive way.
“Okay,” he said finally, stepping back from the window but not far. “We’ll talk later. When you’re not armed with a pillow.”
“I’m not armed,” I whispered.
“You absolutely are.”
He started to walk away, then paused and glanced back over his shoulder, voice warm in a way that left me breathless.
“And Sienna?”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t want distance.”
The words sank into me like heat.
“I’ll pick you up at six o’clock for dinner.” He smiled and walked away.
I gripped the steering wheel, heart pounding, the antique pillow caught under my arm like a lifeline.
Because for the first time in years, I didn’t want distance either.
And that terrified me.
Carson’s words echoed in the quiet parking lot long after he walked away, each one sinking deeper, turning warm and dangerous inside my chest.
I don’t want distance.
He said it like it was simple. Like it wasn’t the kind of sentence that rearranged my pulse and rattled every wall I’d ever put up.
My fingers tightened around the steering wheel until my knuckles went pale.
The antique pillow was still wedged under my arm, the fabric warm from where I’d crushed it against me like emotional armor.
A date?
Not a family holiday or a guided trip.
Dinner with just…us.
Carson turned back slightly, hands still tucked in his pockets, voice steady and maddeningly assured.
My brain short-circuited.
Dinner.
Dinner wasn’t distance. Dinner was something. Dinner was too much. Dinner was not a leadership opportunity, or a guiding assignment, or a casual “hey, let’s discuss logistics.” Dinner was… date-adjacent. Date-coded. Date-dangerous.
I stared through the windshield long after he disappeared into the street like the forest-scented ghost of my emotional downfall. Finally, I forced air back into my lungs.
“No,” I whispered to myself. “No, no, no. How is he so calm? Why is he calm? Why am I not calm?”
The pillow offered no answers. It just sat there, vibrant and mustard-yellow and offensively comforting.
I leaned my head back against the seat and closed my eyes. I could still feel the warmth in Carson’s voice, the sincerity lodged beneath the teasing. He hadn’t demanded anything from me. He hadn’t pushed. He simply said the thing I wasn’t brave enough to say first.
I didn’t want distance either.
And that was exactly why I felt like running.
But I didn’t drive away. I didn’t do the thing I’d always done, which was to put space between myself and whatever scared me most.
I just sat there, breathing unevenly, replaying the way he’d looked at me when he said I’ll pick you up at six o’clock.
As if it weren’t a question.
As if he knew I’d say no.
The nerve of him.
The audacity.
The infuriating, irresistible steadiness of someone who didn’t bolt.
Finally, with a shaky exhale, I put the Subaru in drive.
Dinner wasn’t a commitment.
It wasn’t a vow.
It was just a meal.
A terrifying, emotionally volatile, potentially heart-altering meal.
“Okay,” I whispered to myself as I pulled onto the road. “Okay. Fine. Dinner. I can handle dinner. Probably. Maybe. Questionable. Oh God.”
The pillow slid sideways on the seat as if judging me.
I nudged it gently. “We’re in this together now.”
The sun filtered through the trees as I drove back toward Honey Leaf Lodge, my heart thudding a little too fast, my mind running ahead of me like it always did. But somewhere under the nerves, under the panic, under the instinct to flee, there was something new.
Something that felt like opening a door instead of slamming it shut.
Hope.
Terrifying, wonderful hope.
And for the first time in a long while…
I didn’t run from it.