Chapter 10
Alec
My watch buzzes, and Clementine’s eyes flick to it. I’d built in enough time between the hike and the Fartleks to fix the damn shutter that’s been clattering all night and choke down a kit meal.
“Go grab some lunch,” I tell her.
“Do you have something I can cook? As another thank-you for agreeing to this?”
Clementine falls into step behind me as I head from the truck to the porch. Her curls are shoved back, roots damp with sweat, skin flushed. She looks wrecked—but the kind of wrecked you only get when you’ve actually put in the work.
She worked harder than I expected, honestly. I could hear her breathing, knew she was struggling, but she never complained once. Even with all my training, two months off the trails has dulled my edge. I had to push harder than I wanted to. I’m nowhere near my usual pace.
“I don’t have groceries,” I admit.
She clucks her tongue. “So no lunch, and no invitation for a quick swim?”
The picture that flashes in my mind—her freckles bright, water running down her spine—isn’t safe. The encounter with the bear has clearly turned my wits to mush. She’s egging me on now, I can tell, trying to distract me from how tired she is.
“You could use a shower.”
“So could you,” she fires back. “We could save water, you know. Take a dip in the lake. Be efficient. Lunch and a swim?”
It sounds like a date. My pulse kicks, but I keep my face flat. “The shower will help with any soreness you’re feeling.”
“Oh. Right.” Her smirk says she’s not buying it.
“As long as you’re dried off and ready in thirty for Fartleks around the lake.” I nod to the spruce tree by the lodge shed.
Her head tilts. “Fart what?”
“Timed sprints. For speed.”
“You’re making that up.”
“Guess you’ll have to show up to find out. See you in thirty.”
“See you then.” She lingers on the bottom step for a moment that feels heavy, but she doesn’t let it last long. She turns, and I watch her head up the path to her grandmother’s place.
I couldn’t help watching her on the hike either. For safety, obviously. Though I don’t have an excuse for all the watching I did when I caught her in splits first thing this morning.
But then I see it.
Step, step…favor.
She hisses under her breath when her weight shifts, quiet enough that most people wouldn’t hear.
I’m not most people.
“What’s wrong with your foot?”
“Nothing.” She flips her gaze back at me, blue eyes wide and guilty.
“You’ve got a blister.”
“I do not.”
I glare at her. “We aren’t starting this partnership on a lie.”
“Fine, I have a blister. But it’s not that bad.”
“I’m guessing a quarter-sized piece on your right heel?” My gaze sweeps down her legs, catching the faint wrinkle in her sock where the skin’s likely rubbed raw.
“You’re scary good at that, you know.”
I pull my jacket off and toss it on the top step of the porch. “Boot. Off.”
“No.”
“Yes, let me see it.”
“Absolutely not!”
“Why?”
She bites down on her plush lower lip, which is drenched in that pink glossy stuff again. “Have you ever seen a ballerina’s feet? The things in these boots are not pretty.”
“I don’t care about pretty.” I hold her stare. Then I nod to my jacket on the top step, and she shuffles forward. “I’ve seen climbers’ feet after frostbite. Fifty hours in boots. Half the nails gone. You can’t scare me.”
“As gnarly as that sounds, mine are just as bad.” She sighs, slumps her shoulders, but finally sits on the damn jacket, stretching her legs out in front of her.
“I’m missing half of one toe,” I deadpan.
Her lips curl upward before she tries to mask it. “Seriously?”
“On Cho Oyu,” I explain. “Let someone borrow my socks when they had frostbite, only to end up with it myself. Lost half a pinkie.”
She stares at my boots as if she’s waiting for the leather to turn transparent. “Let me see it.”
“Only if you give me that damn foot of yours.”
“Fine. Show me yours first, and then you can have mine,” she resolves.
I take the compromise and don’t hesitate.
At least not at first. Boot off, then my sock is halfway down before the weird flush of embarrassment creeps in.
That’s new. Never cared before, but her gaze makes me hyperaware of the gnarled skin, the jagged nail beds, and the fact that these feet have been on more mountains than most people have been on vacations. Still, I peel my sock off.
She leans forward, hair sliding forward to curtain her face as she examines my foot where it rests on the porch step. Coconut from her sunscreen still clings faintly to her skin, sharp against the scent of pine sap and dust.
“Well, color me corrected,” she says softly. “Guess I’ve never met anyone whose feet are more messed up than mine.”
I pull my sock and shoe back on. “Glad you’re satisfied. Now take that boot off,” I call over my shoulder as I grab the medical kit out of the back of the Tacoma and return to kneel in the dirt in front of her.
“Bring it up here.” I tap my knee, and she kicks her foot up. My hands close around her ankle, the smooth, warm line of it jolting something low in my gut. I keep my movements brisk, but her mouth curves like she knows exactly how close I am to not keeping this strictly professional.
I slip her sock off and instantly notice it’s soaked at the heel.
“Clementine,” I mutter, shaking my head as I stare at the crimson fabric. Her foot’s a battlefield of split skin, bruised nails, and raw blisters.
“It’s not that bad.”
“Not that bad?” I echo.
“I’ve danced on worse. I once had a fracture in my ankle, healed just enough to walk, and I still pushed myself to perform.”
“That’s not right.”
“I’m sure this isn’t the first time a partner’s pushed themselves around you. I mean, with F—”
His name dies on her tongue, but I’ve already heard it and am already refusing that I have.
I pour water over the worst of her heel.
She flinches, hissing, head tipping back, and I have to drag my gaze away from the long, pale line of her throat.
Up close, there’s a cluster of freckles on the front of her shoulder blade that reminds me of Ursa Major and another near her neck that forms a question mark.
I hadn’t noticed them before. I force myself to focus on the task at hand.
“This,” I say, reaching for the alcohol, “is going to sting.”
Her eyes flick up in a challenge. “Promise?”
Sly little fox. She sucks in a breath as I place an alcohol pad on her skin, and her toes curl into my thigh. I’ve done this for hundreds of people, probably thousands, but I can’t stop thinking about how soft her skin is, how compliant she is when she’s not arguing with me.
This whole thing is an arrangement. She didn’t ask me to help her train just so I can ogle her like a piece of meat.
“We always stop for blisters,” I grit out, steadying my breath.
“Always. This’ll derail the training plan.
You can’t hike with open wounds like this, Clem.
” The words explode out of me before I can catch them, but I need her to understand that I can’t let her get hurt. “I can’t have you injured week one.”
She leans back on her hands, the porch creaking. “I didn’t want to stop. And I didn’t have to—I did the whole hike. I can do the fart thingies or whatever else you’ve got.”
“That’s not the point. You don’t have to push through stuff that’s preventable.”
Something flickers in her face—hurt, maybe—but she looks away, watching a dust mote spin in the air between us.
I sit back on my heels, hands on my thighs. “We need to trust each other out there. And right now? You’re making that hard.”
Her chin tilts up. “You’re acting like this is life or death.”
“If you hide injuries, you’re a liability. To me. To yourself. I’ve carried partners out before, it’s not happening again.”
“You won’t need to carry me out.”
“That’s not your call.” It comes out curt, and I feel her flinch before I even register the words.
For a beat, we just listen to the wind through the spruce. She doesn’t meet my gaze, and I hate that I put that wall there.
I pull out my notebook, needing something to fix.
“Skip the Fartleks. Do tomorrow’s weight training instead.
Walk to work in something comfortable, wear the weighted vest for an hour, and stretch.
River training gets bumped to two days from now.
I’ll need a day to find us a kayak. Saturday will be the first day with you at the lodge. ”
She exhales slowly. “Okay. Weight, walk, stretch, vest, kayak on Friday. Helper on Saturday.”
“Put your number in.” I hand her my flip phone.
She stares at it. “What is this?”
“My phone,” I explain. “Most of this place doesn’t have service, but this thing can pick up a call or text anywhere. If anything comes up, I want to know. Every blister, rolled ankle, bee sting, weird lung thing. I want to be ready.”
Her fingers brush mine when she passes the phone back. “Thanks for not letting me get eaten by the bear. And for…” Her gaze flicks to my hands still resting against her ankle. “Taking care of my feet.”
She slides off the porch step, bare soles crunching over dirt. The swing of her hair catches the sun, and I follow the line of her stride until I see it again—that tiny hitch she thinks she’s hiding.
Even still. Performing to the very end.
I shouldn’t have snapped at her. It’s not her fault she’s wired to push through pain. I’ve spent years doing the same thing. But the image of Finn flat on the ice won’t shake, and the thought of watching her go down like that because I didn’t make her take it seriously hits harder than I expect.
“They’re not bad, by the way,” I call out to her.
She glances over her shoulder. “What?”
“Your feet. Not by a long shot.”
That earns me a real smile, one she tries to smother. “I’ll send you a photo of me doing the workout later. And maybe overshare my whole life. But you asked for it, camp buddy.”
Buddy.
I hate that word.