7. Evie
In the end, I stretch a three hour hike into nearly five hours. Shame swirls in my belly for wasting Rowan’s time like this on purpose, but I can’t bring myself to move any faster. Not when it means saying goodbye and never seeing him again. That thought weighs my stiff boots down until they’re practically glued to the path.
Because last night in the cave… it changed me. Shook up my view of the world, and I don’t mean the sexy snuggles to get me warm again, though those were great—I mean the stuff before that.
Sharing food together; chatting until late. Feeling the simple luxury of a hot bath on a cold evening. Feeling calm for the first time in my life.
Now when I think about going home to my cluttered apartment, to living packed like sardines with millions of people in the loud, hectic city, my pulse races—and not in a good way.
Do I even want to go home at all? What do I have waiting for me there, except a job I don’t even like and bills I struggle to pay?
“You good?” Rowan asks, taking my elbow to guide me around an ant hill. We’re near the base of the mountain now, where rocky ground turns to grassy slopes, and the town of Starlight Ridge is spread out right in front of us, with only a bridge over the river to cross.
“What? Oh, yeah.”
Somewhere in that jumble of quaint, painted buildings is the room I rented for a few nights so I could pester the famous Wild Man of Starlight Ridge for an interview. I won’t lie: despite my big mountain awakening back there, I’m pretty excited to return to indoor plumbing.
“We should do a swap,” I hear myself say, shading my eyes from the sun. It’s mid afternoon, bright, windy and warm, and as we cross the bridge then join the biggest street in town, the shop windows on either side sparkle. There’s a florist, a specialty cookie store, and something called Craft Encounters with hundreds of balls of wool displayed in wicker baskets in the shop window.
“You know, like when people stay in each other’s houses for vacation? I sleep in your cave for a night, then you try my…”
My rented room. With a single twin bed and a lumpy mattress.
God. What am I saying?
“Forget it,” I mutter, my throat dry. It was a dumb idea, and now I can’t look at the wild man towering beside me, his long legs keeping pace as I stride along the sidewalk. Feels like I just exposed my most vulnerable, embarrassing thoughts, and now I’m squirming from awkwardness and regret.
Of course Rowan won’t want to stay in my room with me. What kind of offer is that? He’s literally escorting me down the mountain to get rid of me, and as soon as we say goodbye, I’ll never see him again.
“Alright,” Rowan says.
I blink, tripping over a crack in the sidewalk. Rowan catches my elbow, steadying me. “What?”
“I said alright. We’ll do your swap thing.”
When I gape up at the wild man beside me, he’s too busy squinting into the sunshine to meet my eyes—but I know he’s paying attention, because when I stumble to a halt, he stops immediately too.
And you know… seeing Rowan here in town, yesterday’s dirt washed away and dressed in simple clothes, I can almost picture the man he used to be. The man before he took to the mountains. Handsome and rugged and—and clean cut back then, I bet. With a shaved jaw and a steady smile.
Now there are faint lines at the corners of his eyes—lines that hint that the mountain life is hard going, but that what Rowan ran from is even worse. And he holds himself a little awkwardly in his button down plaid shirt, like if he moves wrong he might accidentally burst through the seams.
He’s haunted. It’s so plain to see down here, surrounded by small shops and cafes and other kitschy painted buildings. From the moment we set foot back in civilization, there’s been an itch under his skin.
And yet he’s offering to stay a whole night here. With me.
“Are you serious?” I rasp.
Rowan nods and frowns. “Are you serious?”
My fingers wrap around his wrist, clinging tight like he might bolt. It’s a good wrist, so big and sturdy that I can’t reach all the way around it. His pulse taps rapidly beneath my fingertips, strong and quick.
“Deadly,” I say.
Rowan’s frown melts away, and the smile he gives me is crooked, lifting his beard. “Well, then,” the wild man says. “Lead me to your lair.”
* * *
“The bed frame shrieks when you roll over,” I warn, our steps loud as we climb the rickety wooden staircase. “And there’s a private bathroom but it’s, like, closet sized.”
“Evie?” Rowan’s deep voice behind me is amused. “It’s fine.”
Yeah, well, that’s easy for him to say. He’s not the one who offered a vacation swap without thinking it through, and who’s now panicking that his guest will hate every second of it.
I spent the ten minute walk here listing everything that’s wrong or broken or shitty about the room—which was a pretty long list. Pretzel Media aren’t known for splashing out on their employees’ accommodation, and this whole hotel looks like it’s held together with spit and prayers.
Called the Eagle’s Nest, it’s near the outskirts of town, wedged between a bike repair shop and a liquor store. Though it’s painted a cloudy purple color, trying to join in with the colorful street, the exterior paint is peeling and patchy from age.
Inside isn’t much better. The reception desk was empty when we arrived, the sound of a TV blaring from the office behind. The decor is shabby chic, with every lamp and rug and painting clearly rescued from a flea market, and there are a lot of eagle themed trinkets.
But it does have indoor plumbing and electric light. So maybe Rowan won’t hate it completely?
“Here we go.” I fumble the key into the lock, turn it, and push the door open. “Home sweet home.”
Heart in my throat, I hang back in the doorway. Rowan glances down at me then squeezes past, our bodies brushing together in a fleeting, tickly rush of warmth. As soon as his back is turned, I sag against the door frame, weirdly dizzy.
No one has ever had this effect on me. Ever.
The room is on the top floor—a converted loft. The ceiling is high and arched, supported by wooden beams, and the bed tucked against the wall has a patchwork quilt.
No brown pelt on the floor, but there is a woven cream and black rug.
There’s a wooden chest of drawers too. A rickety side table and a hard pine chair.
Aaand… that’s it.
It’s nothing.
“We don’t have to stay in here the whole time, obviously.” My arm swipes across my flushed forehead. “We can drop our stuff and go hang out in town. Or, um. Go for a walk along the river. Or something.”
I’m babbling. Rowan walks slowly across the room, hands in his pockets, while the floorboards groan under every step. He stops by the bed, head tilting to examine the pattern on the quilt.
He’s silent.
I’m so nervous I feel a little faint.
“Or there are cafes and coffee shops and bars in town. We could—are you hungry?”
I’mstarving. A bag of berries isn’t much for a five hour hike, and it’s not like I usually skip lunch. Back home, I’m a snackosaurus.
Rowan clears his throat, wheeling around like he’s just remembered I’m here. He looks guilty, though all he’s done is walk inside and peek at the bed.
“Food?” I prompt.
Rowan nods. “Yeah. Of course. But first… Evie, would you do me a favor?”
It’s probably lame, but I would do literally anything for this man.
“Sure,” I say.
Rowan gusts out a long breath. “Will you cut my hair?”
* * *
Thirty minutes and one quick supply run later, we’re set up with a pair of scissors in my hand. The rug is rolled against the wall, and the pine chair is set in the middle of the floor, on top of a spare sheet to catch the hair.
Rowan sits bolt upright, a towel draped around his sturdy shoulders. I’ve dragged the side table close and spread it with my brand new hairdressing supplies.
They didn’t cost much, but Rowan insisted on paying for everything. When I was shocked that he had money tucked in those jeans at all, he rolled his eyes and said, Grabbed some before we left. I’m not clueless, Evie.
My stomach rumbles loudly.
Rowan glances around, concerned, his gaze roving down my body. I swear, everywhere he looks, tingles explode across my skin. “Should we eat first?”
“Hell no.” Gathering a handful of tangled dark hair, I point my scissors at him. “Don’t you dare take this moment away from me.”
With a huff of laughter, Rowan faces forward again. “Do your worst, Daniels.”
Oh, I will.
How many times over the last twenty-four hours have I peered at Rowan, desperately trying to picture him without his caveman hair and beard? How many times has he caught me staring, lips parted, trying to mentally airbrush all those tangles away?
It’s on.
“I guess this is how you keep warm in that cave while you wander around bare chested.” The hair is so thick at first that I hack at it in clumps, watching it tumble down to the sheet below. “Your poor head must be boiling.”
Rowan grunts, staring right ahead.
A few determined snips reveal more of his throat, his neck, his ear. Safe where he can’t see me, I press my lips together, fighting a smile. This is so freaking intimate.
I love touching him like this.
Love that he trusts me enough to let me do this.
And lord, he’s so big and warm and muscly and solid. Even sitting on the spindly wooden chair, Rowan’s head is level with my chest. Getting my hands on him, touching his hair, breathing in the windblown scent of his body… I’m dizzy. My pulse throbs between my thighs, heaving and aching.
Sun spears into this attic room, cooking the dust motes as they spin in the air. We’ve propped open a window, but it’s nothing like the breezy cave. Rowan’s shirt is tossed on the bed, his torso bare beneath the towel again.
Thwump, goes another lock of tangled hair onto the floor.
Thwump.
Good. Riddance.
Don’t know how Rowan feels about this, but I’m riding such a high. Everytime I hack away another heavy chunk of hair, it’s like he sits up straighter in the chair, breathing looser.
“You let it get pretty bad.”
Rowan rumbles his agreement.
“Why?”
He lifts one muscled shoulder in a shrug. And I think that’s all the answer I’m going to get, but half a minute later, Rowan speaks quietly, addressing the wall.
“I don’t have a mirror in the cave. Don’t really think about how I look. And I figured it was getting bad from the stares I got when I came down to town for supplies, but… I guess I didn’t care what anyone thought of me anyway.”
My heart thumps against my rib cage. I tilt my head, cutting slowly to make sure it’s all even. “And now?”
There’s a long pause.
“Now I guess I care.” A faint blush spreads up the back of his neck, but Rowan stares forward at that wall like his life depends on it. “What some people think, I mean. One person.”
Holy moly.
“Your sister?” I guess anyway, though I know full well who he means. “Tess?”
Rowan grunts in disagreement. “She’s my baby sister. She has to love me.”
Those words hang in the quiet attic air, while both of us stop breathing in the golden sunshine. Love him? Love him? A pipe gurgles on the wall, and a blackbird flutters onto the windowsill outside.
Rowan’s hands are balled into fists where they rest on his thighs.
I drag a shaky breath in through my nose.
“I didn’t—I meant—”
“Stop fidgeting.” The flat side of the scissors rap against his shoulder, and Rowan shuts his mouth, jaw tense. “This is a delicate operation, Wild Man. Sit still.”
We can dig into that veiled confession once I’m done transforming the famed cryptid of Starlight Ridge, and no sooner.
Otherwise my hands will never stop trembling long enough to finish this.