Chapter Thirty-Nine
Sienna
A week passed in the way early spring always moved in Buttercup Lake—slow, uneven, teasing. One morning, there’d be frost on the windows; the next, sunlight streamed in so brightly it felt like nature had forgotten it lived in the Midwest at all.
By the time Friday arrived, winter had retreated for real, and spring was officially out to play.
Sunshine, birdsong, mud, the whole deal roared to our corner of the world to announce the real spring.
I stepped out of Cottage Seven, stretching my arms wide and letting the warm air settle over me.
The trees around the lodge were dusted with early buds—tiny pink blurs of color against branches that had been bare for too long.
Fresh earth scented the breeze. Water dripped rhythmically from melting patches of snow in the shadowed corners.
It was beautiful.
It was hopeful.
It felt like the season was nudging me forward without asking permission.
And honestly? That’s exactly what I needed.
I had a full schedule today of gear checks, trail condition updates, packing my kit, and final prep before tomorrow morning, when I’d be leading a group on my own.
It would be my first solo overnight of the season, and normally I would’ve been buzzing with anticipation. Instead… I found myself thinking about Carson.
A lot.
More than a lot.
Every time the breeze caught just right, it reminded me of that hike last week—him tracking the group with that steady, impossible calm, the heat that flickered in his eyes when we stood too close, the way his teasing voice scraped the edges of something inside me I didn’t have a name for yet.
And every single time I started thinking too deeply about it, I had to physically shake my head like I was removing a cobweb.
But today? Today was all business.
I walked toward the gear shed, boots crunching in the gravel. My pack was already half prepped; I just needed the water filter and a new rope since the last one decided to fray on me at the worst possible moment.
The mid-morning air was warm enough that tiny beads of sweat dotted the back of my neck. I tucked my hair into a messy bun and pushed open the shed door—
—and immediately froze.
The entire gear shed had transformed.
No, seriously.
This wasn’t organizing. This was magic.
Ropes coiled into perfect spirals hung from labeled hooks. Carabiners gleamed in tidy rows. First aid kits sat in uniform stacks on newly installed shelves.
And at the center of the shed stood Carson.
His back was to me, shoulders broad beneath a dark sweatshirt, sleeves pushed up to reveal strong forearms that flexed as he carefully arranged a row of titanium cook pots. Sunlight pooled through the open windows, catching the warm tones of his hair.
Oh no.
He turned at the sound of my exhale.
And smiled.
Double oh no.
“Morning,” he said, voice warm and low, like he’d been waiting for me to open the door.
I clutched the doorframe. “What—how—why does this place look like REI and a monastery had a baby?”
He chuckled. “It needed work.”
“This is not work. This is a renovation.”
“Just a little… streamlining.”
“Carson,” I whispered, stepping inside as if afraid the shed itself would vanish if I moved too fast. “This is incredible.”
He shrugged like it was nothing. “Figured it might make your trip prep easier.”
Something fluttered in my chest—light.
“Thank you. Really.”
He nodded once, eyes soft. “You’re welcome.”
We stood there in a few seconds of charged silence—him with that steady, unbothered posture; me with oxygen levels somewhere below medically safe.
Finally, he cleared his throat.
“Actually, I was going to come find you.”
“Oh?” I asked, trying to sound normal and absolutely failing.
“I’m heading out for my trip early tomorrow, too,” he said. “Different direction than yours. So I figured we should at least grab lunch before we disappear into the wilderness for a few days.”
“Lunch?” I repeated, like the concept was brand new.
“Lunch,” he confirmed.
“A surprise lunch?”
He smiled again. “If you want to call it that.”
I stared at him, brain stalling. “Did you… Bring food here?”
“I did.”
“You packed a lunch?”
He nodded.
“For both of us?”
He nodded again.
“Like a date lunch?”
A small, maddening, heart-wrecking smile curved his mouth. “If you want to call it that.”
I was going to combust.
When I didn’t immediately respond because the oxygen in the shed had evaporated, he lifted a canvas bag from the workbench.
“Come on,” he said gently. “There’s a good patch of sun behind the cabins.”
I followed him outside, hope or panic thumping in my chest, I couldn’t tell which. He led me to a quiet spot behind Cabin Four, where the grass had finally emerged from beneath the snow this spring. The sunlight there was warm, bright, and impossibly gentle, and I saw a little care package.
He spread out a blanket and unpacked the lunch.
Sandwiches. Fresh fruit. Two lemon bars. And a container of what smelled unmistakably like Violet’s lavender iced tea.
“You went to my sister,” I said.
“I bribed your sister,” he corrected.
“How?”
“I told her I’d tell her how our date went.”
“…she fell for that?”
“She asked for a lifetime supply of information.”
I snorted, sitting down beside him. “That sounds like her.”
He handed me a sandwich wrapped in parchment. I took it, unwrapping it slowly, not entirely sure my hands were steady enough for this moment.
He glanced at me.
“You look less stressed this week.”
I rolled my eyes. “Don’t get used to it.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Should I not?”
“No,” I said, pointing at him with my sandwich, “absolutely not. This calm, stable version of me is temporary. A blip. A miracle.”
His lip quirked. “You’re allowed to be calm.”
“It feels shady,” I said. “Suspicious. Like the universe is luring me into a trap.”
“A trap,” he repeated.
“Yes,” I insisted. “Any moment now, something is going to fall out of a tree and hit me. Or a raccoon will steal my sandwich. Or—”
“You could,” he said gently, “let yourself enjoy this.”
I swallowed and let myself enjoy the sunlight, the quiet…the warmth of his voice.
“You make things dangerous,” I whispered.
His eyes warmed, but he didn’t move toward me. He didn’t push. He didn’t assume.
“How?” he asked.
“Because,” I said slowly, “I’m not panicking.”
“That’s bad?”
“It’s terrifying,” I said. “And also kind of wonderful. And also—”
I stopped.
Because he was looking at me with a softness I hadn’t seen before, it wasn’t the controlled, careful tenderness he sometimes used around me, but something deeper.
Something that made my breath catch.
“Sienna,” he said quietly, “I like you.”
I blinked. “I know.”
He grunted a low laugh. “Do you?”
“Yes. I mean—yes, obviously. You flirt with me like… like you’re immune to consequences.”
“I’m not,” he said.
That sent a ripple through my chest.
“I’m falling for you,” he said softly.
The words hit me hard.
“And I know you’re scared,” he added. “I know you’re trying not to run.”
My throat tightened. “I don’t want to run.”
His entire expression shifted.
I wasn’t sure who leaned in first. Maybe it was him. Maybe it was me. Maybe the gravity between us finally hit its tipping point. But suddenly he was closer, merely inches away, with his knee brushing mine and his breath warming my cheek.
The wind rustled the early leaves above us. The lake shimmered in the distance. Somewhere far away, someone laughed.
But here, in this moment, there was only him.
Carson Reed.
The man who reorganized gear sheds and packed surprise lunches and looked at me like staying still wasn’t scary at all.
“I don’t want to run,” I whispered again.
His gaze traced my mouth, slow and reverent.
“Good,” he murmured. “Because I don’t want you to.”
My heart leaped, and right then, sitting on the warm blanket, spring sunlight brushing our skin, his fingers just barely grazing mine, I realized the most dangerous truth of all:
I was falling for him.
Hard.
Fast.
Deep enough that the idea of leaving suddenly felt unthinkable.
I didn’t want to run.
I wanted to stay.
With him.
With the lodge.
With this unexpected, terrifying, wonderful thing growing between us.
For once in my life… I didn’t want distance.
And that terrified me.
In the best possible way.
Carson didn’t push closer, didn’t kiss me, didn’t reach out to close the last inch between our hands. He stayed exactly where he was…close enough to pull the breath from my lungs, far enough that the choice was mine.
That was the part that undid me.
He didn’t want to corner me or chase me or rush me. He wanted me to choose him. On my own terms. In my own time. And for someone whose entire personality was built around avoiding entrapment, that freedom was far more intimate than a kiss would’ve been.
I pulled in a slow breath, letting the sunlight warm the back of my neck, trying to make sense of the riot happening underneath my ribs.
“Carson,” I murmured, picking at the hem of the blanket because looking at him directly felt too overwhelming, “I’m used to chaos. And escape plans. And… not staying in one emotional piece very long.”
“I know,” he said softly.
“But when I’m with you, I don’t… feel like running. Not in a bad way.” I swallowed. “It scares me because it’s new. And because it’s strong.”
He turned his hand, palm up, resting it on the blanket between us—not touching, just inviting. “Strong doesn’t have to mean dangerous.”
“For me, it always has.”
He didn’t argue. He didn’t tell me my fears were irrational or that I was overthinking. He just waited, steady and patient, an anchor instead of a cage.
I placed my fingers on his palm.
“Sienna,” he said, voice low, “this doesn’t have to be rushed. Or defined. Or solved today. But I’m not going anywhere.”
That simple sentence unfurled something inside me I didn’t realize had been knotted.
“I believe you,” I whispered.
His fingers curled slightly around mine.
“Good.”
We sat there in the sunlight, our lunch forgotten, our hands barely touching, the world moving quietly around us while something far less quiet moved between us.
And for the first time in a long, long while…
Staying felt less like a trap and more like a beginning.