Chapter Thirty-Six
Carson
I had been on countless trails, crossed snowfields in whiteout conditions, forced myself over ridgelines with nothing but stubbornness keeping my legs moving, but walking to Sienna Harper’s cottage felt like the first time in a long time I didn’t trust my footing.
I didn’t usually get nervous. Or if I did, I hid it under practical tasks or physical distraction. But none of that helped now. Picking her up for dinner wasn’t complicated, yet somehow my heart had decided this was a summit attempt.
It didn’t help that the lodge grounds were quiet.
Twilight settled between the trees, casting long shadows over the path, the last light catching the budding leaves overhead and turning them soft gold.
A breeze carried the smell of cold earth and pine and something sweet drifting faintly from the lodge kitchen.
Everything felt too still, too expectant, as if the woods themselves were holding their breath.
Her cottage came into view, warm light glowing through the window. For a moment, I just stood there, hands in my pockets, trying to calm my pulse. Then I lifted my knuckles and knocked.
The door swung open so fast she must’ve been standing right behind it.
And there she was.
Her hair curled softly at the ends like she’d run her fingers through it a dozen times, trying to decide what she wanted to do with it.
She wore a bright, patterned scarf over a denim jacket, boho, vibrant, unmistakably her, and when her eyes lifted to mine, she gave a smile that was equal parts shy and daring.
“Hi,” she said.
Her voice hit me low, the way it always did.
“Hey,” I managed. “Ready?”
She nodded, but her fingers fidgeted with the edge of the scarf. “I think so. As ready as I can be. Which… is not very.”
That tugged a quiet smile out of me. “We’re just getting dinner.”
“Right. Dinner. A meal. Food. Totally normal.” She paused. “Do I look normal?”
“You look incredible,” I said before I could soften it.
Her cheeks flushed. “Okay. Well. Now I’m already flustered.”
“Sorry,” I said, not feeling sorry at all.
She stepped outside, shutting the door gently behind her, then gave a little shake of her hands like she was preparing for a race. “Let’s go before I overthink this into oblivion.”
“Good plan,” I answered.
As we walked down the path to my truck, a quiet fell between us—one that was comfortable, but charged. The kind of quiet where you felt the other person’s presence without needing to speak. When we reached the passenger door, I opened it for her.
“You don’t have to do that,” she said with a half-smile.
“I know.”
She hesitated, eyes softening, then climbed in. I circled to the driver’s side and slid behind the wheel. The truck rumbled to life, and she tucked her scarf a little tighter around herself as though grounding her nerves.
Once we pulled onto the road, she glanced over. “So… where are we going?”
“There’s a small place by the lake I heard about,” I said. “Good food. Quiet enough to talk. At least, that’s what Grace told me.”
She let out a breathy laugh. “Grace. Right. That’s terrifying.”
“Noted,” I said.
“Don’t you dare note that.”
“I already did.”
She elbowed me lightly, which sparked a warm sweep of electricity through me. It was too easy to smile around her, too easy to let the edges of my guard slip. We drove past the pines lining the road.
After a few minutes, she asked, “Are you nervous?”
I almost lied. But the way her eyes watched me, all open, curious, and hopeful in a fragile way, it made me tell the truth.
“Yeah,” I said quietly. “A little.”
She blinked. “Really?”
“Really.”
“But you’re… steady. Calm. Stoic.”
“That’s just my outward-facing educational brochure,” I said dryly.
She laughed. “I feel misled.”
“Don’t worry. The real me panics internally.”
“That’s comforting,” she said, but her smile was softer now.
We pulled into the small lakeside restaurant. It looked like a renovated dive bar with hanging string lights and a porch overlooking the water. When we walked inside, warm light glowed off wooden beams, and the scent of roasted garlic drifted through the air.
The hostess greeted us and led us to a corner table with a view of the lake. As soon as we sat, I felt the shift—an awareness settling between us, quiet but undeniable.
Sienna picked up her menu, then set it down immediately, unable to focus. “Okay, this is weird.”
“What is?”
“This feels like a date.”
“It is a date,” I said.
She blinked again. “Oh.”
“Is that a problem?”
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “No. I just… didn’t realize we were labeling things.”
“We don’t have to label anything,” I said. “But we are eating dinner together voluntarily. That seems like date territory.”
She groaned softly. “God, you’re honest.”
“Is that bad?”
“It’s devastating, is what it is.”
I smiled. “We can stick with ‘two coworkers eating food.’”
“No,” she said quickly. “No, I think…date is fine.”
Her voice dropped at the end, almost shy.
We ordered, and once the server walked away, she leaned her elbows on the table, chin resting in her hand. “You’re really trying to break down my walls, aren’t you?”
“I’m trying to know you,” I corrected. “You make that difficult when you sprint into stores and crouch behind amphibians.”
She covered her face briefly. “Please never bring that up again.”
“No promises.”
She peeked at me between her fingers, smiling despite herself. “You’re trying to charm me.”
“I don’t think I have to try very hard.”
Her breath shifted, and something warm swept through me.
But then she leaned back, gaze shifting, and asked, “What about your walls?”
I tensed before I could control it.
She noticed instantly, her eyes narrowing with gentle curiosity.
“You have some. Maybe a lot.”
“I’m fine,” I said reflexively.
“That sounds like code for ‘I’m definitely not fine.’”
I exhaled slowly. “I’m not used to talking about myself.”
“Okay,” she said softly. “But I’ve been oversharing all week. Seems only fair you get a turn.”
A corner of my mouth lifted. “You didn’t have to overshare.”
“Oh, yes, I did,” she laughed. “My mouth opens, and chaos falls out. It’s a family trait.”
I hesitated, staring at the table for a long moment.
Finally, she said, “Carson… you don’t owe me anything. Not your past. Not your feelings. Not answers. But if you want to tell me something, I’m here. And I won’t run.” Her brows lifted. “Yet.”
Her honesty made me chuckle.
She said the last part almost nervously, as though she knew how much it mattered.
Something deep in my chest loosened.
“I had to grow up fast,” I said quietly.
She didn’t interrupt.
“My parents died when I was twenty-three,” I continued. “Boat accident. I was suddenly responsible for my younger brother. He was still in high school. Needed rides, food, and someone to yell at him when he skipped class. I became the parent before I’d learned how to be an adult.”
Her expression softened with something tender but not pitying. Just present.
“I don’t regret taking care of him,” I said. “He deserved stability. And he’s doing great now—married, kids, stable job. But after my parents died, everything in my life became… serious. Heavy. I didn’t leave space for anything that wasn’t survival.”
She folded her hands, listening intently.
“And around that same time,” I added, “I was engaged.”
Her eyebrow lifted. “What happened?”
“She broke it off.” My throat tightened faintly, though the wound was old. “Said my world had become too serious. Said I didn’t laugh enough. Said I didn’t have room for a relationship while I was trying to be a stand-in parent.”
Sienna’s eyes softened again, but there was a flash of frustration too. “That seems unfair.”
“She wasn’t wrong,” I said. “I was hollowed out by everything happening around me. I didn’t know who I was supposed to be—not for her, not for myself. And after that… I avoided anything that felt like it required emotional investment.”
She leaned forward slightly, voice gentle. “For how long?”
I gave a quiet laugh. “Until now, apparently.”
Her breath stopped, and for a moment neither of us spoke.
I didn’t know when I’d last told someone all of this. Maybe years. Maybe never in this exact way. But saying it to her felt strangely natural, like she’d opened a door I didn’t mind walking through, as long as she didn’t slam it.
She reached out, resting her fingertips gently on the table between us.
“I’m sorry you went through all of that,” she said softly. “But… I’m glad you’re here. At the lodge. In Buttercup Lake. On this date.”
My pulse climbed.
“I’m glad I’m here, too,” I admitted.
Her lips parted faintly, a soft intake of breath.
The food arrived, breaking the moment, but the shift lingered between us—warm, tentative, real.
Sienna didn’t speak right away after I finished. She didn’t rush to fill the silence or smooth over the exposed places. Instead, she sat there with her fingers resting near mine, close enough to touch, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her skin, but giving me control over the space.
“That must’ve been a lot,” she finally said, voice quiet but steady.
“It was.” I swallowed. “It took years before things felt normal again. And even then… I think I stopped letting anyone close enough to matter.”
She tilted her head slightly. “So you just went full wilderness hermit.”
“Pretty much,” I said, a short laugh pushing out. “Turns out isolation is surprisingly straightforward.”
“But lonely,” she said gently.
I let out a slow breath. “Yeah. That too.”
Her brow softened with something that wasn’t pity—thank God—but something like recognition. She wasn’t unfamiliar with running from emotional noise. Maybe that’s why she understood the quiet places in me without trying to fill them.
“So,” she said, fingertips drawing an invisible circle on the table, “your fiancée didn’t like… the serious version of you?”
“She said it felt like being with a man standing half in another world.”