9. Sloane
SLOANE
I wake up in a tent bathed in sunlight, accompanied by the faint patter of small woodland creatures who are far too bright and bushy-tailed for their own good.
My watch reads just past seven, which is a solid three hours later than I expected to sleep on my first night in the backcountry. God bless industrial-strength earplugs.
I take a deep breath of clean mountain air and bask in the tiny accomplishment of having spent a night alone in the woods and lived to tell the tale.
Then I frown because, in addition to pine and dirt, the air carries the unmistakable scent of coffee. Which is odd, because when I set up camp last night, there wasn’t a single person anywhere near me. Or so I thought.
My reeling brain offers several unhelpful theories: I’m either still dreaming, bears have learned to operate a French press, or I’ve wandered into a Snow White fairy tale where I’m going to unzip my tent and find the aforementioned woodland creatures arguing about porridge temps.
Placing the earplugs into the pocket of my sleeping bag, I sit up, nerves sending goosebumps rippling along my arms. There’s birdsong and the chattering squirrels overhead, but not a single human voice, offering zero clue as to where that coffee smell is coming from.
I have a knife stowed under my sleeping pad and bear spray wedged into the corner of the tent, neither of which I’m confident I could deploy against a real threat. The most aggressive thing I’ve ever done is slam a paperback shut on a spider, and I felt guilty for days after.
I grab them anyway and command my trembling fingers to get a grip as I unzip the tent one tooth at a time, poke my head through the flap, and—
“Morning, Sunshine.”
My nervous system goes completely off the rails.
The voice is gravelly and soul-deep familiar. My body recognizes it before my brain can catch up, which is frankly rude, given that my brain is the one hoarding receipts.
Jensen Grant sits on a flat rock about fifteen feet from the tent, long legs stretched out in front of him as he holds a steaming and speckled camp mug in his big hands.
He looks so annoyingly at home occupying center stage in my wilderness bucket list challenge that, for a second, I wonder if this is a cruel and unusual hallucination.
“I have to be dreaming,” I mutter.
“Then your dreams are G-rated compared to the ones I have about you.” He takes a slow sip from the mug, his patented smirk already doing its smirky thing.
“I guess I shouldn’t mention that.” He rubs a hand over the back of his neck while I stare at him, mouth agape, brain still struggling to come back online.
“Forget I said anything. I’m here strictly as your friend. ”
“You are not my friend.”
I scramble out of the tent, or try to. But one foot catches in the mesh, and I nearly face-plant into the dirt, recovering with all the grace of a drunk Labrador. But I manage to hold onto the bear spray and knife, one in each hand. My odds of effectively using them have just tripled.
“We have a couple of days on the trail to remedy that.” He picks up a metal French press from the ground next to his feet. “Can I offer you a cup?”
Okay, so maybe a solo backpacking trip wasn’t my smartest move.
You’ve heard the debate about whether it’s more dangerous for a woman to meet a strange man or a bear in the woods, right?
Unfortunately, the way my heart is flinging itself against my ribs has nothing to do with a fear of wild creatures or creepy strangers and everything to do with how the morning light hits the silver threaded through the dark hair around his temples.
This is not the country-music-cool Jensen I met in Nashville or the slightly tamer version who walked into my bookstore.
This morning, he’s all mountain-man, wearing mocha-colored trail pants and a long-sleeve moisture-wicking shirt in the same smoke-gray as his eyes with a lightweight puffer unzipped over it.
The scruff that rasped against my throat in a Nashville hotel room is already thicker than it was two days ago.
And those stupid, beautiful gray eyes are translucent against the green and brown of the forest behind him.
Welp, I’m going to kill my friends.
I’ll hike out of the wilderness, fly commercial to Colorado—because I refuse to borrow my brother’s plane in case he was in on this—and murder every member of the Cool Girls Book Club.
Starting with Avah, because I guarantee she’s the instigator.
Did none of them believe I could handle this trip on my own?
“Where’s your tent?” I ask. It’s a far cry from what I want to know. Like how he found me, who told him, and if his eyes were that shade of silver those two mornings I woke up with his arms around me or is this a new thing. But a girl has to start somewhere “I didn’t hear you make camp last night.”
“You’re a heavy sleeper. I remember.” His smile widens a fraction, so cue the blushing and tingling at his steel-trap memory.
“But I’m still surprised I didn’t wake you.
I got here around midnight.” He hitches a hand over his shoulder toward a sleeping bag and tarp staked under a tree.
“I’m cowboy camping. I knew I needed to haul ass to catch up with you, so I didn’t bother with the weight of a tent. ”
My jaw goes slack once again, even as my stomach does loop-de-loops at the idea of him hauling ass after me. “You can’t cowboy camp in the Montana wilderness.”
He shrugs, entirely unbothered. “I just did.”
“There are bears and wolves and mountain lions and shit.” I throw my arms out as if a predator parade is about to start. “Plus it gets cold here at night.”
“Trust me, I know.” The smile falters a fraction. “It’s a change from how we camped under the stars in the Smoky Mountains. But I wasn’t going to waste time shopping for or get slowed down by carrying a heavier pack.” He stands up but doesn’t move closer. Not yet anyway. “I wanted to find you.”
Those five words come out slow and move across my skin like a caress.
I wanted to find you.
Oh, hell. I’m in so much trouble.
I turn and duck back into the tent. I need a second to fix my face, which I can feel betraying me in a way my friends would say proves they did the right thing. My brain needs to kick into gear and stop letting my body run the damn show.
I jam my feet into the Birkenstocks I added to my pack at the last second as a camp alternative to my hiking boots. Birth control shoes, Avah calls them, and maybe that’s what this situation requires: built-in contraception in footwear form.
I’m furious that my friends sent him. Insulted at the implication that I needed sending-after. Unfortunately, I also cannot deny how good he looks. At least in the privacy of my own head.
I grab the satellite phone, and when I scoot out again, Jensen’s moved closer and is holding up a mug of coffee. I pluck it from his hand, careful that we don’t touch, and hate myself for being so weak.
Because…well…coffee.
“I need to make a call,” I say, doing my best to sound unaffected by him and the miles of forest surrounding us. Mostly, I try to ignore the fact that my pulse is currently prepping for an Irish dance competition.
“I’ll be here when you’re done.”
“How lovely for me,” I mutter, then stalk off through the trees, sat phone in one hand, coffee in the other.
The Birks crunch on pine needles and twigs, but I keep moving until I’m maybe a hundred yards away from camp. Far enough that he won’t be able to hear me if I don’t shout. A tall order with how I’m feeling at the moment.
I take a drink of coffee, and… damn him, it’s really good.
I pull up Jeremy’s number on the sat phone. Avah picks up on the second ring, entirely too cheerful. Like she knows exactly why I’m calling.
“Good morning, Queen. How are the Sawtooths—”
“The Sawtooths are in Idaho.”
“Same diff, girl.”
Through the phone, I hear Jeremy. “Is she okay? Did something happen—”
“She’s fine, Stanford. Just missed me.”
“Put me on speaker, Avah.”
She sighs. “Are you sure?”
“Now.”
“Sloane, what’s wrong?” my brother demands, and the genuine worry in his tone makes my throat tighten.
“Did you know about this?”
“About what?”
“About the fact that Jensen Grant made camp fifteen feet from my tent last night, then offered me a cup of coffee this morning like we’re filming a nature-coded SUV commercial.”
The beat of silence that follows tells me everything I need to know.
“Avah,” Jeremy says slowly. “What did you do?”
“I trusted my instincts,” Avah says, sounding less cheerful. “Which have proved themselves to be spot-on recently.”
“Why don’t you trust me?” I sound bitter and sad, which I hate more than I hate myself for loving Jensen’s perfect brew.
“I do trust you,” she says emphatically. “I swear I do, Sloane. But I couldn’t stop thinking about man versus bear.”
“What are you talking about?” Jeremy demands, but his tone is gentle because he’s always gentle with Avah.
I remain silent while she explains the hypothetical debate to my brother.
“If a woman is alone in the woods, would she rather run into a strange man or a bear?”
Jeremy’s answer comes quick. “I’m guessing the bear.”
“Yes, in the majority of cases.” It sounds like she’s giving him a private Ted Talk. “Because bears are a known threat. They don’t strike up a conversation or ask you for directions or kidnap you because they’re an unhinged survivalist whose equally unhinged son needs a wife.”
Jeremy coughs out a laugh. “That last part is weirdly specific.”
“It also happened,” Avah shoots back. “Google Kari Swenson right now. You’ll see that—”
“Not right now,” I interrupt, because we’re losing the thread here, and my justifiable anger is dissolving at an alarming rate. My toxic trait is that I’m a sucker when it comes to my friends. “And no more looking up wilderness true crime, Avah.”
“Fine,” she mutters. “But I’m not sorry, Sloane. I mean, I’m sorry you’re mad, and I know we shouldn’t have interfered. But I can’t send someone I love into the great unknown alone without backup.”
“She’s not wrong,” Jeremy tells me.
“You don’t know Jensen,” I counter. “He could be unhinged.”
“He’s not,” Avah says simply.
I don’t argue. Because even though I hate admitting it, I know she’s right. But I also know he’s not the man versus bear kind of threat. I know it from just two nights in Nashville. And from a photograph that represented years of him playing guitar for cancer patients long before I was one of them.
He’s way more dangerous than a lunatic man or a bear.
“How was your first night?” Avah asks conversationally. “And are you going to be mad at me forever?”
“I slept like a baby.” My turn to sigh. “And not forever, but at least give me a few minutes to wallow in it.”
“Fair,” she agrees.
“So Jensen caught up with you overnight?” Jeremy clarifies. “Did he sprint up the trail?”
My heart does that annoying pitter-patter thing again as I glance back toward camp, catching a glimpse of gray fabric moving between the trees. “Maybe he does endurance marathons in his spare time. I don’t know.”
“He doesn’t give off freaky fit vibes,” Avah says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. “But he’s for sure into you.”
“I’m not discussing that on speaker, Avs.”
“Praise the Lord,” Jeremy mutters.
“I really am sorry,” Avah says, then almost immediately adds, “but I’m also not sorry.”
“I know.” My voice trembles a little, and I focus on a couple of squirrels playing an intense game of keep away on a nearby branch. “I hate you, but I also love you.”
“Love you, too, girl.”
“Stop,” Jeremy deadpans. “I might cry.” There’s a muffled grunt from the other end of the phone.
“It’s just me now.” Avah’s voice is breezy as a spring morning. “Are you really okay? Be honest.”
I think about it for a moment and realize the knot that had taken up residence in my gut since last summer has loosened slightly.
“I’m good. Honestly.” Before my pride can edit it out, I admit another truth.
“Also, backpacking through the Montana wilderness with someone—even Jensen—might be better than being out here alone.”
Avah gives a satisfied laugh. “I’m glad. And I hope Kristen Quinn realizes how cool it is that you’re making this effort for her.”
“I hope she doesn’t think I’m unhinged,” I mutter.
Avah scoffs. “I’ll fucking kill her if she does.”
“I love you more than I hate you,” I whisper, my voice thick.
“I love you most,” she answers. “Call when you get to the cabin. Or in five minutes.”
“Goodbye, Avah.” I hang up before the waterworks start, because there’s no crying on day two of my brave solo wilderness adventure. The one that’s not so solo anymore.
I walk back toward camp, finding it very inconvenient that my righteous fury at everyone involved in this situation has melted like a snowman on a summer day.
Jensen is back on the rock with one boot off, his thick sock peeled halfway down his foot, and he scowls at a blister the size of a quarter.
“Tell me you didn’t speed hike with new boots.”
He glances up through unfairly long lashes. “Blisters build character.”
A laugh bubbles up before I can stop it, and the sound seems to surprise him as much as it does me. My defenses soften like that snowman as his eyes go translucent again. No melting, I tell myself. No softening. I am winter.
“Be prepared for a lot of character building. I’m not slowing my pace for you.”
He smiles, as if my attitude amuses him, and pulls the sock back on. “I’ll manage.”
I shake out the last drips of liquid from the mug and set it down next to him. “Thanks for the coffee.”
“You’re welcome. Thanks for not sending me away.”
“Yet. The day is still young.” Feeling inexplicably exposed, I cross my arms over my chest. “But this is my adventure. I make the rules.”
He nods, solemn as a man being sworn in on the witness stand. “Of course.”
“First rule is you make breakfast.”
The smile expands, and I dig my nails into the soft flesh of my palms to keep from swooning.
“Fair enough.”
I sniff. “You’re agreeable.”
“When it suits me.”
The words are spoken casually, but his eyes stay pinned to mine and…damn, where’s a bear when a girl needs one? Heat climbs my neck toward my face, and I take a step back before the blush gives me away.
“I need to pack up.”
“I’ll work on breakfast.”
I duck into the tent and try to think about what it will mean to have a companion on the trail—just the two of us together for hours. This isn’t what I planned, but it won’t change what I’m here to do. I won’t let it.
I’m going to find Kristen Quinn and hug her and tell her that her words were a light when the world felt dark.
And the man making breakfast ten feet away doesn’t change that.
Jensen Grant doesn’t change anything. If only I could quiet the voice in my head trying to convince me it changes everything.