Chapter Thirty-Seven
Sienna
The morning after our date, I woke up feeling… odd.
Not bad odd. Not panicked, odd. Just—lighter.
As if some internal spring that had been wound too tight had finally loosened during the night.
Maybe it was the sleep. Maybe it was the dinner.
Maybe it was the way Carson had held my hand like we were something that could be real and not just a wild scenario the Sunshine Breakfast Club created in a group chat over cinnamon rolls.
Either way, I woke up with a flutter in my stomach and a thought that should’ve terrified me but didn’t:
I want to see him again.
Unfortunately, I didn’t even have time to sit with that because Violet knocked on my cottage door at seven in the morning, holding a small basket.
“Here,” she said, shoving it at me.
“What is—Dear God.” The basket was heavy and warm and smelled like sugar and butter and the kind of magic only Violet’s kitchen produced. “What is this?”
“Your morning provisions,” she said, as though that explained everything. “Mom said breakfast is ready in the lodge. But you…” She eyed me up and down. “You look like you have plans to tell me everything.”
“I do not have plans,” I said, definitely lying.
“Oh, don’t worry,” Violet smirked. “I’m not asking questions.”
“You’re absolutely asking questions.”
“I’m only asking how the date went.”
“I knew it,” I muttered.
She stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, because personal boundaries were more of a suggestion in our family.
“Well? Was it good?”
“It was…” I hesitated, trying to put last night into words. “Good.”
“Good as in I didn’t crawl under the table from embarrassment good? Or good as in I had a kissable moment and didn’t kiss him only because a waiter interrupted me good?”
I set the basket on the counter and pressed my palms to my eyes. “Why are we like this?”
“Genetics,” she replied cheerfully. “Now talk.”
“It was good,” I repeated, more firmly. “Better than good. Great, maybe. I don’t know.”
Violet’s grin widened. “You’re glowing.”
“I am absolutely not glowing.”
“You are absolutely glowing,” she said, poking my cheek. “And this basket is my gift to you.”
“This is not for me,” I said, removing the cloth cover. “These are—oh wow, these are all of Carson’s favorites.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
“Because,” Violet said. “I like him. He’s quiet. We need more quiet in this family. It’s good for the ecosystem. You should deliver these.”
“Violet!”
“What? You’re taking them to him, aren’t you?”
I huffed. “Maybe.”
“I knew it.” She squeezed my shoulders. “Go. Before you overthink yourself into a coma.”
“I don’t overthink,” I lied.
She lifted a brow. “You crouched behind ceramic frogs yesterday.”
I pointed a finger at her. “How do you know this?”
“Grace.”
“Never speak of that again.”
“Then go,” she repeated, physically steering me toward the door like a sheepdog with a particularly stubborn sheep.
Which was how I ended up walking across the lodge grounds with a basket full of muffins, scones, Danishes, and what looked suspiciously like a sticky bun the size of my head.
Carson’s cabin sat near the tree line, early sunlight filtering through the branches and casting soft shadows across the porch. I paused a moment, letting nerves prickle beneath my skin like something waking up.
I knocked.
The door opened almost immediately.
Carson stood there barefoot, hair slightly damp like he’d just showered, wearing a gray Henley that did absolutely criminal things to his chest and shoulders. He blinked at me, then at the basket, then back at me.
“…Morning,” he said, voice still rough from sleep.
My brain momentarily forgot how to speak.
“Here,” I blurted, thrusting the basket toward him with the finesse of someone handing over a bomb.
He caught it easily, gaze flicking to mine with a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.
“Good morning to you, too.”
“Violet baked things,” I said, unnecessarily. “And she insisted I bring them. To you. Immediately. Before any of them cooled. Apparently.”
He stepped aside. “Want to come in?”
I hesitated. Just a fraction. Just enough to feel the shift inside myself—the part that always wanted to run, now… pausing.
And I did the mature thing. I stepped in.
His cabin was tidy in the way only a man who had lived out of duffel bags for years could be tidy—minimal things, arranged with quiet precision. A stack of trail maps sat on the counter. His pack leaned against the wall. A single mug rested near the sink.
The air smelled faintly of cedar and the soap he used.
He set the basket on the table, lifting the cloth cover.
“Wow,” he breathed. “She sent enough to feed a search party.”
“That’s because my family doesn’t understand reasonable portion sizes,” I said, stepping closer. “Or boundaries. Or subtlety.”
He gave a soft laugh. “Thank them for me.”
“I won’t,” I said. “That’ll only encourage them.”
His eyes warmed, landing on my face a moment longer than necessary.
“You seem less stressed today.”
I shrugged, fiddling with the edge of the cloth.
“Yeah, well… don’t get used to it. I might panic later.”
He leaned against the counter, arms crossing, watching me with that quiet attention that always felt like a spotlight and a blanket at the same time. “Last night went well.”
It wasn’t a question. Just a statement he offered carefully, like he was giving me room to disagree if I needed to.
“It did,” I said.
His smile deepened. “Good.”
“Yeah,” I murmured. “Good.”
Finally, I cleared my throat. “I need to tell you something.”
His brows lifted slightly. “Okay.”
I took a breath. “I… was being passive-aggressive yesterday.”
He blinked. “…About the trip?”
“Yes. The upcoming trip. The one I tried to throw you to the wolves on. Literally and figuratively.”
“No…I never saw that coming.” A laugh escaped him. “Why passive-aggressive?”
“Because I panicked,” I admitted. “And when I panic, I do stupid things. Like, wipe my name off a work assignment and replace it with empty space.”
He tilted his head, studying me. Not judging. Just listening.
“And I don’t want to do that,” I continued. “Not with you. So… if you still want me on that trip, I want to be on it.”
His gaze softened, something like relief flickering behind it.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I want you on it.”
“Good,” I said, nodding too quickly. “But.”
He lifted a brow. “But?”
“But we need separate tents.”
A slow, amused smile curved his mouth. “Separate tents.”
“Yes.”
“Because?”
“You know why.”
“I want to hear you say it, though.”
My cheeks heated instantly. “Carson.”
He lifted a poppy-seed muffin from the basket, tore off the top, and took a slow bite like he had all the time in the world.
“Say it,” he repeated, voice warm and unbearably patient.
I glared at him, heat rolling across my chest.
“Fine,” I said. “Separate tents because… too many feelings have erupted since we slept together.”
He didn’t choke on his muffin. He smiled.
Really smiled. A full, breathtaking, heartbreakingly devastating smile.
“That so?” he murmured.
I crossed my arms. “Don’t look so pleased.”
“I can’t help it.”
“Try.”
“No.”
I groaned, pacing a few steps away before turning back to point at him.
“I am trying to be responsible. Professional. Slightly less unhinged.”
He took another bite of his muffin, eyes never leaving mine.
“So… we’re avoiding shared tents now?”
“Yes,” I declared.
“Even if the weather dips below freezing like last time?”
My mouth opened. Closed. “That was different.”
“That was survival.”
“It was also a mistake.”
“Was it?”
My pulse stuttered. “Carson.”
He set the muffin down slowly, deliberately, as if clearing the space between us of anything that wasn’t necessary.
He stepped toward me, and I felt the warmth of him, the steadiness he carried so effortlessly.
“I’m okay with separate tents,” he said. “If that makes you comfortable, we’ll do that.”
Relief exhaled out of me.
“But,” he added gently, “don’t pretend the feelings are a problem.”
“They are a problem.”
“They’re not,” he said. “They’re real.”
I swallowed hard. Harder than I meant to. He probably saw my entire throat construct.
“I don’t know how to… do this.”
“I know,” he said softly. “But you’re not doing it alone.”
Something in my chest cracked open at that.
I didn’t run.
Instead, I let out a breath and said, “We should eat something before I combust.”
He gave a low laugh and lifted the muffin again. “Want the first bite?”
“No,” I said, stealing it from his hand anyway. “I want the top.”
He watched me bite into it, eyes bright, and something passed between us. And it felt kind of dangerous and…kind of promising.
“Separate tents,” he repeated.
“Yes,” I said, licking a crumb from my lip. “Separate tents.”
He looked at my mouth just a fraction too long.
“Sure,” he murmured. “We’ll see.”