When Glitter Meets Gold

13. Sara

13

SARA

A moose.

A fucking moose.

I can’t even begin to comprehend that I was almost trampled to death by a six-foot moose.

Yet here I am, weather beaten and trembling, but alive. And it’s all because of Jack, who pulled me to safety like I weighed no more than a labradoodle.

Now we’re tangled in each other’s bodies, my entire weight pressing into his heaving chest as the storm rages around us. My hips press into his, his warmth seeping into me. He’s a solid wall of protection and safety.

He’s also shirtless. Why is he shirtless? Why do I like that he’s shirtless?

I shake the thought away while I force my body to move.

But I can’t. Nor can I let go of him because I think I’m still in shock. I can’t move, not even when I feel his hips readjust beneath mine, probably because I’m crushing his balls into pancakes. I should move, I should really move…

“It’s gone. You’re okay.” Jack’s voice fills the silence between my shallow breaths .

I nod. The first inch of movement I can manage, even though I feel so far from being okay.

His eyes are soft, and, for the first time, his features are etched with something different. Something new.

Patience.

Then I’m hit with the scent from the jacket. But now it’s coming from him, and while it smelled good before, the scent mixed in with notes of him is… intoxicating .

He glances down at his arm where my nails are clawing mini moons into his flesh.

“Sorry,” I whisper, prying my fingers from him. At the same time, I feel a pressure release from my waist and realize he’d been clutching onto me just as tight. “Sorry…I didn’t mean to scream so loud. I shouldn’t have… I’ll be quieter.”

“It’s okay,” he says, eyes searching my face. “Don’t worry about that.”

I pull away from him, peeling my body from his as I slide onto the wet earth.

I’m suddenly aware of the absence of his hands on my hips because the storm feels more dangerous than ever, and my body begins to shake like it lost its safety blanket.

Jack sits up, his abdominal muscles crunching as he comes to kneel in front of me. The rain, gushing from the sky in thick torrents, clings and drips from the slopes of his chest muscles. He pushes tendrils of soaked hair back from his face and casts a glance over his shoulder.

“We should get back inside.” He helps me climb to my feet.

“I got your jacket all gross,” I say absently as we step back into the safety of the tent.

He takes the soaked item from me, shaking it off a couple times outside, before zipping away the elements and sealing us inside.

He hangs the jacket in the far corner of the tent. “Doesn’t matter.”

He stoops to dig around in a pile of neatly folded items, then crosses the tent to hand me a towel and some clothing.

“They won’t fit, but it’s better than wet clothes.” His gaze drops, and he turns to the tent’s arched entrance. “I’ll give you some privacy.”

“Don’t go back out there.” I dab my hair with the towel, surprised at my outburst. “I mean, you’re soaked worse than I am. Just turn around I guess.”

He considers it for a moment before deciding that averting his gaze is an acceptable way to navigate around how naked I’m about to get.

I slide off the soaked sweater, my tank top and leggings, breathing a sigh of relief when I find the jacket did a good job of keeping at least my underwear dry. I mop my damp skin with the towel before pulling Jack’s huge gray sweater over my head. Pine and leather fills my senses once again, blanketing me in warmth like a bedtime tea.

“I changed my name a long time ago.” Jack’s somber voice hums from behind me.

I glance over my shoulder, oblivious that he’s also in the process of undressing. He’s standing sideways, running a towel through his hair. Completely fucking naked.

I snatch my eyes away as guilt breathes fire through my body.

And suddenly, he’s not the boy I’ve been treating him as, and the image of the twelve-year-old kid dissolves into something that never was.

He’s not sculpted and chiseled the way Drew is in his Instagram photos. Instead, he’s solid and defined, in a lumberjack sort of way. His arms are thick, his back wide, his entire body is just enormous.

I twist again when I think he might’ve added at least one item of clothing, but Jesus Christ, he’s still butt ass naked. My thighs clench together.

I slap a hand over my mouth because I think I just made a squeaking sound when my eyes latched on to the most perfect ass I’ve ever seen.

I force my eyes to look away, rubbing down my legs vigorously with the towel, my mouth gaping open like one of those damn basking sharks feasting on plankton.

“What, uh, what about your name?” I cough, making a fist to hit my chest.

Jack continues as if nothing happened, oblivious to my spying. God, I hope he’s oblivious.

“Are you okay?” he asks curiously.

“Of course. The rain just got into my…mouth. From when I was outside.” Wide eyed, I whisper what the fuck to myself. “You were saying?”

“Right. You probably won’t remember,” Jack continues in a tone that suggests my outburst has fallen under the radar, “because he excelled at putting on a show for visitors, but my dad was kind of a jerk. He took off when we were kids and left my mom to pick up the pieces.”

I’m stunned into silence. This is the first shred of personal information he’s offered, and all my filth-ridden mind can do is continue to picture the perfect symmetry of his globe-like butt cheeks.

Focus Sara, for the love of shit.

He swallows audibly. “So we changed our last name. Got rid of the final thing that tied us to him. I went a step further, getting rid of my first name too. I knew it bothered my mom to yell the name of her asshole ex-husband every time I screwed up, which was all the time back then.” He sniffs out a muted laugh as a vague memory of the Bakers surfaces in the shutoff corners of my mind. I remember now, Jack and his dad shared the same given name. Things must have been bad for him to detach to that extent.

“I’m so sorry. That’s awful.” My voice fades to a hush as I think about the things that never register as a kid. I remember his dad vaguely, mainly his strictness, and how everyone straightened out or got out of his way when they saw him coming. He was like the teacher you didn’t dare misbehave in front of. I guess I’d always assumed the strictness was necessary in their household of unruly children. I’d been too young to consider the strictness was something more sinister.

Now I wonder if the kid’s behavior was all just a coping mechanism for a miserable upbringing. It’s not enough to forgive what they did to me that day by the swamp, but a new torch of understanding is shining onto the details of that day all those years ago.

I’m about to ask what I should call him, if Jack is no longer an option, when he speaks again. “My life can get a little…nuts,” he continues over the distinct sound of material brushing over skin. “Which is why I come out to places like this, to get away from it all. Catch my breath. Make sure I don’t turn into the same asshole my dad was.” There’s another beat of silence, in which he seems to reflect. I decide to keep my question for another time, afraid that if I interrupt him, he’ll retreat into that hard shell again. He continues, “I inherited the radio from a friend who was tossing it out because it only worked half the time.”

I feel a hitch in the air, like perhaps he’s regretting talking about his family.

I scramble to offer up a response before I lose his trust, casually piling my damp hair into a fresh knot to keep the illusion of nonchalance and forcing every ounce of pity from my voice.

“And to the man who wants to disappear for a while, that was the appeal? I get that.”

“Yes.” His tone leans toward satisfied, perhaps pleased that we’re conversing, rather than regretting he’s just spent the last five minutes depositing his vulnerabilities to me.

“Are you decent yet?” he asks, changing the subject regardless.

I pat my cheeks, wondering if they’re stained scarlet from the whole seeing him naked thing.

“As decent as I can be in a stranger’s clothes,” I say, shrugging in his borrowed sweater that cuts off at my upper thigh. As he turns around, I flap the arms. “Can I pull it off?”

I watch him visibly stiffen. The same way he did when I moved closer to him as the wind blew around the tent. He pushes his hands through his hair. “Uh, yeah.” He blinks at the ground, then back at me. “Yeah, you pull it off.” He turns away again, but not before I catch the hint of a smirk tug at his mouth.

I contemplate how dumb I must look in his huge sweater while nestling into the blankets like a roosting ground bird.

Blankets. In place of the single layer that was there before the moose incident, there now exists two thicker blankets and a small pillow. I glance over at Jack’s sleeping bag, noting his pillow isn’t there anymore.

“You gave me your pillow? When did you do this?” My eyes rake over his khaki hoodie and jersey shorts, neither looking like enough to keep him warm through the night.

“When you were playing chicken with a moose.” He smirks for a second before pouring water from a flask into its lid and handing it to me. “You looked cold earlier. ”

He’d noticed after all.

“I handled that poorly, didn’t I?” I gulp the water in one chug, suddenly aware of how dehydrated I am. “I really didn’t mean to make so much noise. Sorry.”

He shrugs. “You handled it like anyone who’s never left the city would.” He eyes me, waiting for me to tell him I leave the city all the time. I can’t, which is why I catch him smirking again. Then his face is serious. “You apologized back there too. I guess I don’t get why.”

I bite my lip. My chest starts to feel tight. “I’ve been screaming and yelling this whole time. I’m just letting you know that I’m aware and it’s not because I’m looking for attention. I’m just adjusting to being out here.”

Jack surveys me. His head angling. “You don’t need to apologize for being afraid.” He scratches his head. “Or for making noise . I was just kidding earlier when I told you to go five minutes without screaming. There was a lot going on with the crash, and then figuring out who you were.”

I’m nodding, comically so. The gesture is nothing apart from a distraction from something I’m fighting to keep from surfacing. I try to say something like, “ Yeah, I get that.” Maybe I say it, maybe I don’t.

And then I’m zoning out. Jack’s face blurring into shapes without edges, my surroundings disappearing into haze. Because here it comes, the heaviness, the weight over my heart.

It’s happening again. My hand rises to my chest as though there’s a way to free the coils that wrap around my ribs. That all-consuming constricting feeling is back.

The memories pour in.

It’s last year. Mark got a new job. Joined a team of other engineers who’d taken him under their wing. He fit in, was sure to get promoted quickly. I was proud of him .

One of the guys invited us to his wedding. Everyone from the company is there, which makes Mark nervous. He won’t stop adjusting his cufflinks, straightening his tie, popping breath mints.

It’s an outdoor wedding. Connecticut in September, a perfect day with a warm breeze and no clouds. Wine flows and the speeches are polished and heartfelt. The day is perfect, but Mark and I aren’t. The man who’d once shown me off like a million-dollar prize, and made sure everyone knew my name, is now leaving my side at any opportunity. I don’t know half the people he speaks to, and they don’t know me.

I mostly mingle with strangers. Sway alone beneath the marquee, keep to the edge of the dancefloor, hide behind tight smiles and long sips of champagne.

A man asks me if I want to dance. I politely decline.

“What’d he want?” Mark asks, appearing out of nowhere, eyes narrowed.

“He said I should be dancing.” I smile hopefully at him. “I told him I already have a dance partner.”

Mark doesn’t react. “You’re standing next to the dancefloor. It looks like you’re begging for attention.”

I get choked up, but I hold back the tears. “That’s not what I’m doing. You won’t spend time with me, I don’t know where else to go other than stand here watching others have fun.”

His face hardens. “I’m getting to know my new colleagues. You know how important this is to me.” Then he lowers his voice again. “At least slow down with the drinking. You get loud when you’ve had too much.” He sighs. I don’t tell him it’s only my first glass. I just nod, smile and set the glass down. It makes him happy.

The day turns into night. Twinkle lights hang from the canopy. Fire sconces light the decking. Mark is a few feet away, joking and talking football with three other guys. Boy talk. I sit at a round table. Confetti and discarded champagne flutes litter the ivory tablecloth. None of them mine. I tuck into a piece of red velvet cake. Then throw my fork down when I see some kind of beetle looking thing crawl onto the plate.

Mark hears the clatter. Looks over. Shoots me a look. I smile, motion for him to come join me.

Boy talk must have been pretty intense because he doesn’t tear himself away. I shrug, decide to use a napkin to flick the bug off my plate and over the side of the decking. It sprouts wings, comes right at my face. I cry out then hear a crash at my feet. I’d swiped the plate clean off the table. It lies in pieces on the decking.

“I hate those things.” An older woman next to me says. “They come out at night and get in your hair, crawl up your legs.”

I smile at her, appreciate her understanding. “They always find me.”

“They only do it to the pretty ones, hon.” The woman winks at me as I reach to pick up the broken pieces. Mark’s voice is within earshot.

“Excuse my date,” he says to his buddies. Date? I’d never heard him refer to me as his date. I believe a long-term relationship qualifies you to be a little more than someone’s date. Then he laughs. “It’s not a party until all eyes are on her.”

An attention seeker. That’s his analysis. Too loud, too much.

The woman hears too. She smiles, it looks awkward. I don’t know if she’s embarrassed or if she also thinks I’m an attention seeker.

The night ends. Everyone piles into cabs. We ride to our hotel for the night.

“What was that back there?” I say, my gaze fixed on the lights of gas stations, streetlights, headlamps, all blurring into one strip outside our cab window. “You think I wanted to draw attention to myself? You think I dropped that plate on purpose?”

He slowly readjusts his body in the seat. “Those are my colleagues. Important people. Serious people.” He sighs. “You’re always making noise, Sara. These outbursts. It doesn’t matter what it is. A joke, a sad story, a fucking beetle. You’ve got to make the most noise. Have the biggest reaction. Why can’t you just chill?”

Something cracks inside my chest.

“So, I embarrass you? That’s what this is about?”

The cab is silent. The driver tilts his head a couple of degrees. Then cranks the radio. Casts his eyes back to the road.

“Honestly…” Mark twists his lips to one side. He’s trying to appear hesitant, but I can tell he’s never been so sure of anything in his entire life. “Sometimes.” Another crack. This time deeper in my chest. The type that doesn’t fix easily. “Look, I wasn’t going to bring this up until later, but I’ve been offered work outside the city. It’s just for a couple weeks, but I was thinking, I might take the time to see other things. Travel some.”

I touch my chest. Feel my nails dig into my skin. Feel my world about to collapse. “How much time?”

He loosens his bow tie. Looks out his backseat window. “A while.” I nod. Decide I don’t need to ask anything else. Tonight, I’m not Sara, his girlfriend. I’m Sara, his date. Someone disposable. Someone who’d seen this coming but was too scared to say anything. “You know this hasn’t worked for a while. You know that, right?”

“I know,” I breathe. “But when I talk to you about it, you tell me everything is okay. You make me believe everything is okay.” I twist away. Close my eyes. “I wish you hadn’t done that Mark.”

The journey is the longest I remember.

“You’re okay, right?” Jack asks a few minutes later from his side of the tent. “Your head isn’t fried from the crash?” If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he looks like the portrait of someone trying hard not to care but failing miserably.

“I don’t have concussion if that’s what you’re wondering,” I say, realizing he’s asking why I just zoned out. “I’m just processing being out here.” I chew on my lip. “Hey, about earlier, I said you were responsible for the way I am now. That’s not true.” I offer a weak smile. “At least not fully responsible.”

“You mean someone else lured you to a swamp plagued with flying ants that bite?” He lifts a brow.

“You say it like you knew about the ants.” I narrow my eyes.

“You weren’t our first victim.” He winks. And before I can swipe at him, he adds, “And we did try to apologize, but you were…”

“Kicking and screaming, and devoid of reason and clarity?” I offer. Jack nods before one side of his mouth tips upwards. I sigh, “However it went down, it’s in the past. And while we’re getting things off our chest, I should say thank you.” It comes out abruptly. “I haven’t been very grateful for everything you’ve done for me, so I suppose I understand why you’d be wary of me.”

He shrugs before producing a clear hip flask containing swishing amber liquid. He pops the lid, gulps deeply, then offers it to me. It isn’t quite margaritas in a soaking tub, but after the events of today, it’ll more than suffice. Jack looks vaguely surprised when I take the flask and sip.

Scotch.

My face wrinkles as the liquid burns my throat, flooding my body with heat.

“No, you didn’t deserve the way I behaved.” He takes another gulp before passing the flask back to me.

“So, what gives then?” I stretch my legs out in front of me, crossing one over the other and leaning back on my hands. “What’s with the suspicion?”

He retrieves the bottle I’ve placed in the few inches of space that exists between us, this time taking larger gulps. “Like I said, my life can get a little nuts.”

“So, you hate your job?” My eyebrow ticks upwards at the speed he’s going through the bottle.

“Fuck no.” A solid yet happy confirmation. “There’s just parts of it that require me to be…” He trails off, appearing to search for the right word. “Vigilant.”

“Vigilant?” Now it’s my turn to reach for the flask because it feels like I’m about to witness another layer stripped from this man. “Are you sure you’re not an assassin?”

His mouth twitches with the beginnings of what could be a small grin before he opens his mouth to respond. “I’m dealing with a situation that could cost me a lot of time, money, and my reputation.” He drinks again. “All part of the fun.”

Whatever it is, it’s bound to be juicy, and with the speed he’s going through the scotch, I’m sure I’m about to learn some serious gossip.

If only it weren’t for the crack of static that blasts from the radio.

We startle out of our conversation.

Jack seizes the radio, holding down the side button while barking into the receiver.

“Watch Tower, are you there? Come in.”

Static scratches again, then a deep male’s voice comes from the device. “This is Watch Tower, confirm your name. Over.”

“This is Juliet Victor. Over,” Jack replies as I watch him with fresh curiosity. Juliet Victor? Some kind of hiker’s code name?

“Good to hear your voice. The storm fried the signal. I’ve been trying to reach you all day. You called earlier? Over.” The voice relaxes by a hairpin, but the formal undertone remains.

Confidently, as if he isn’t half a bottle of scotch down, he replies, “I need assistance over on the lower side of the east peak. Around a mile west of the abandoned road. Over.”

“Copy that.” The voice confirms. “I can have a chopper to you in…give or take an hour. The storm will prove tricky, but we’ll get to you. Over.”

Jack’s about to reply, but I lean forward, stopping him by placing my hand on his too large forearm and pushing the radio from his face. His body becomes stiff, and again I wonder if he’s uncomfortable with me getting too close. “Wait,” I say, letting my hand drop from his arm and watching him visibly relax. “It’s not fair to get them out here in these conditions, especially when there’s no real emergency.”

Confusion blares in his eyes. “Are you saying you want to stay here?”

I shake my head. “I don’t want to, but I will.” I say it with resolve, like there’s some untapped corner of my personality lying in wait, a part that’s willing to spend a night in a tent.

“Are you serious?” He offers a final escape.

“Very.” I nod profusely, answering before the scotch wears off. “Tell them to wait until morning, when the storm clears.”

He glances down at my bare legs that spill from under his sweater. “You need to get that ankle checked.”

“You’re banged up too. Your hand, remember?” I flick my gaze to his hand that’s bandaged up in a fresh dressing he must have attended to while I was busy with the whole peeing/moose situation.

“I’m fine,” he says, fixing his piercing blue eyes on me. “I think you should get checked over, Sara. Help is only an hour away.”

The thought is more than appealing, it’s downright tantalizing. Almost to the point of torture. I could be out of here in an hour. Possibly even back to the hotel. I could sleep in gorgeous luxury bedding and order midnight room service. I could even have that margarita in the tub, all before the night is out.

Yet there’s this feeling knotted in the pit of my stomach. A feeling that tells me I deserve everything that’s happened to me since I got off the plane.

The car crash, the trek into the unknown, the endless abundance of insects and spiderwebs, the storm, the near-death moose experience. The inevitable bill I’ll have to charge to different credit cards to pay for the Jeep’s damages.

I deserve this. How I managed to convince myself I could lie to everyone and pull this off without consequences is reason enough not to be rescued.

Did I really think I could go back to the city and tell everyone I embarked on this hike? It wouldn’t stop there, I’d have to keep the lie going. I’d have to tell my friends, maybe even my parents, I’m operating on so many levels of wrong.

A ragged sigh escapes from my throat because my decision here feels pivotal.

If I wanted to be the person my boss and Drew think I am, then I had to fight for it. A night in a tent is not something the old Sara would have done, but since I’ve already come this far…

“No,” I say with scotch-infused determination. “I’ll sleep here, and in the morning, I’ll hike to that tower and get help from there. Call them off.”

Jack opens his mouth to protest but must think better of it since he turns back to the radio. “Change of plans. Have assistance ready by first light tomorrow morning. We’ll be at the Eastcreek Tower. No immediate medical assistance required.” Then, with reluctance like he’s second guessing his decision to agree with me, he adds, “Over.”

The radio buzzes a couple more times while Jack and emergency rescue confirm plans for tomorrow.

I zone out because the notion of spending all night in this tent with him has just hit me. The old Sara wouldn’t have spent a night in a tent, but the new version sure as hell isn’t going to get used to it either. What have I done?

“If you’re trying to prove a point, it’s wasted out here.” Jack secures the hooks on the entrance zipper, sealing us in for the night. “The chopper is equipped to deal with emergencies.”

I slip into my surprisingly comfortable cocoon of blankets. “You think I should go?”

He studies me. “It’s your call.”

I press my back into the blankets, staring up at the shadowed dome of the tent roof.

“The reason I’m out here in the first place is kind of diabolical.” I sigh. “So, I’ll sleep here and maybe it’ll teach me a lesson.”

I hear Jack shuffle into his sleeping bag. “Good to know I’m aiding in your self-punishment.”

I smile. “You’ve certainly been a good sport.”

Then, before I’m about to roll over and close my eyes, I can’t help but ask, “Hey, you wouldn’t happen to have one of those sleep masks? You know, those silky things you put over your eyes?” He tosses a towel at me. I immediately toss it back at his head and sigh.

“Just let the sound of the rain put you to sleep,” Jack says, like it’s a gentle, passing shower and not something just this side of a natural disaster.

“I’ll try, but I’ve never been good at falling asleep. I need my rituals,” I admit.

He passes me the bottle again. “Rituals? I figured there’d be more than the sleep mask thing.”

I tug the blanket up to my chin. “About a hundred more.”

“Like what?” A hint of intrigue.

“My ten-step skincare routine, getting into my pajamas an hour before bed, herbal tea on the nightstand, gel eye patches, an episode of an old tv show.” The roaring absence of each one sends my eyes tugging toward the radio.

“Seems normal, apart from the ten-step thing.” Jack muses. “Anything else?”

“Well yes, but it’s a little dumb,” I say, wishing I’d never brought it up.

Sensing my hesitation, he offers, “A couple more drinks and I won’t remember in the morning anyway.”

True. A quick glance at the bottle reveals that we are steadily approaching memory loss territory.

“I…”— Why am I telling him this ?—“sketch.”

Jack twists to face me, his eyes subtly flaring for more information.

“I keep a notepad and pencil next to my bed, and when I can’t sleep, I doodle. I’m no artist, it’s just stupid things, easy things, but it helps.” I sink my head into the pillow, feeling like I’ve overshared. I shiver, deciding I’d probably feel less exposed if I were to stand in front of him swinging nipple tassels in his face .

“What do you sketch?” he asks, his voice filled with intrigue.

“Anything. The bagel I had for lunch, dresses that don’t exist, but I wish did. My apartment and how I plan on making it a whole Nancy Meyers theme. Just daydreams I want to fall asleep to.”

And I’m grinning at my own lameness.

I swipe at my face, forcing my teeth to return behind my lips immediately.

“Okay, I have no idea who or what a Nancy Meyers theme is.” Jack smirks.

I twist onto my side to face him, feigning comical shock. “Only one of the best filmmakers to walk the earth. Father of the Bride? The Parent Trap?”

Jack studies me for a moment, his face softening. “Yeah, I know those.”

I flop back onto the blankets. “Floral wallpaper, timeless artwork, classic pieces of furniture.” I sigh at the ceiling of the tent. Yeah, I’m drunk. I think I’ve lost Jack because he doesn’t say anything.

Apart from…

“You daydream about your lunch?”

I frown. “You haven’t tried Gypsy’s bagels. They’re the best, and my favorite.”

“In that case, I’m sorry I don’t have a notepad.” He smirks.

“Don’t laugh,” I say, even though I’m still grinning.

“I’m not laughing.” His voice is quieter, and I have to fight to hear it above the rain. “Just curious, that’s all.”

I keep my head still, fighting the urge to see if his face is as genuine as his tone.

We’re silent for a while, and just when I think it’s time to close my eyes, Jack’s voice fills the space again .

“This might just be paranoia talking, but since you’re set on turning over a new leaf or whatever, might I suggest that when someone you just met offers you a drink from a bottle without a label, in the middle of the woods…you should probably say no.”

I twist to find his hands clasped lazily behind his head, his eyes resting softly on me.

“Are you saying I shouldn’t trust you, Jack?” I look at him with mock fear, glancing at his tattoo and wondering why I have the urge to run my fingertips over it.

“What? No, I didn’t mean that…” I can see his body go rigid, but he quickly relaxes when he catches my grin. Rolls his eyes. “I told you, you’re safe here.”

A piece of my subconscious wants to whisper, I know. Instead, I tug the blankets tighter around my body, turning to get comfortable.

“Are you warm enough?” he asks, watching me wriggle as he adjusts the lamp so it shrinks to the dimmest setting.

“Yes. It’s just the whole falling asleep thing,” I admit. “It’s like the second it’s time to shut off, every crazy thought I’ve ever had pops into my mind.” Oversharing again. Definitely drunk. “I have meds for it if the sketching doesn’t work, but they’re in my hotel.”

Lightening cracks in the distance and the rain comes down heavier. I twist, turning away from him to face the opposite side.

“Sorry,” he says, probably mad that I didn’t just take the damn chopper offer. “Wish I could help.”

And then, because I’m full of scotch, and certain I’ll never see Jack again after tomorrow, I flick my eyes to the roof, toward the sound of the hammering rain, and I decide to overshare again.

“About a year ago, my friend got me this blanket that has weight sewn into it. It’s not heavy but when you get underneath, it’s like the pressure helps send you to sleep.”

I hear a weird constricting sound coming from Jack’s throat. “Are you asking me to...”

I explode with laughter. “I’m not asking you to climb on top of me, Jack.”

“Right. Of course not.” He recovers. “Then, what?”

I chew on my bottom lip, keeping my back to him. “Would it be weird if we held hands?” I wince, because why the fuck did I just ask him that?

Keep scotch away from me, forever.

A few beats of silence pass, and right when I feel like unzipping the tent and offering myself to the storm, I hear the rustle of Jack’s sleeping bag. Then, his arm moves across my body, careful not to touch anywhere I haven’t invited him to, until his huge hand finds mine.

“Whatever helps,” he says casually, like there’s zero reason to feel embarrassed. “This makes us even for the swamp thing, right?”

I grin as I peek down at our intertwined hands.

“Oh, you’d have to turn into the entire weighted blanket for that to happen.” My eyes widen because I can’t believe I just said that. Did a part of me want him to climb on top of me? I blink because of course not, why the hell would I want that?

I hear him chuckle from behind me.

The sound tells me that if I turned around, our faces would be inches apart. Which is why I can’t move. Because with his hand wrapped around mine and the scotch pumping its way through my body, I don’t trust myself not to do something stupid. Not when the image of his naked butt and shirtless chest are still prevalent in my mind.

Instead, I close my eyes and smile at the fact I just heard Jack laugh for the first time since being out here. I let the sound play over in my head.

It’s the fastest I’ve fallen asleep in over a year.

I wake to a shock of light leaking through a transparent section on the peak of the tent. Groaning, I push my back further into the warmth behind me. Sinking into the comforting mass I’ve molded myself to all night. The mass pulls me in tighter. I push my ass into it, seeking out its heat.

And then, it breathes into my hair.

My eyes pop open as everything comes flooding back and I remember just whose body I’m shamelessly arching against right now.

My eyes dip to where Jack’s huge arm is draped across my waist. And when I register something hard pressing into my butt cheeks and lower back, I suck in a loud, sharp breath.

A tornado of panic erupts from inside the tent. Jack gasps, leaps up, grabs a pillow, presses it to his crotch. I squirm from the blankets, spring to my feet, and attempt to create as much space as possible between us.

“Fuck!” Jack blinks, his voice thick with sleep and shock. He keeps the pillow in place. “What time is it?” He readjusts his shorts as he angles his body away from me, there’s more cursing. “Fuck, it happens sometimes, okay? It doesn’t mean I’m?—”

“I don’t want to talk about it!” I shriek. “Just forget about it.”

Forget about your damn morning boner wedging into my ass cheeks to say rise and shine.

He unzips the entrance, cursing and mumbling before storming out. He’s so embarrassed, it’s almost funny .

Thirty minutes later, after minimal eye contact and focusing only on packing up the tent, Jack appears to have recovered from the sunrise incident.

The storm has passed and for the first time since being here, I notice things like the trees and the color of leaves, and how fresh and replenished everything looks after a night of rain.

“Morning,” he calls to me in a low, gravelly voice. Then, with a raised eyebrow and a slight grin, he adds, “I’d ask if you slept well, but since you were snoring in my ear all night, I can draw my own conclusions.”

I pull a face. “I do not snore.”

He performs a quick sweep of my body, perhaps noting that I’m still wearing his sweater.

“You’re right, you don’t.” He shrugs before adding, with a level of charm I haven’t been exposed to yet, “But you do talk in your sleep.”

Dread pools in my gut.

He’s not quite smiling, but a hint of amusement tugs at his handsome features.

“What did I say?” My stomach churns so violently, I might capsize.

I track him as he strides off to a row of trees, forcing me to scuttle after him like a suckerfish scouring for barnacles. “Hey, wait a minute! What did I say?”

I hear some rustling, followed by a zipping noise. “A little privacy?” he says, and I can’t help the gasp that shrieks out of me when I realize he’s about to pee.

I whip my head around.

“You could’ve warned me you were about to do that,” I yell as I march off, even though I figure the gesture is his defense against divulging whatever incriminating thing I mumbled in my sleep .

I stride off, retuning to camp to find everything is packed up and the area looks as if we were never there in the first place. I can’t stop my eyes from traveling like magnets to the spot next to the tree where I’d lain frozen to Jack’s chest only a few stormy hours earlier.

Even though I can’t wait to get out of this place, a part of me can’t shake the thought that it wasn’t all bad. The part where I slept without medication for the first time in a hundred years, inside a tent feels pretty monumental.

As we set off, I roll up the sleeves of the sweater. Suddenly, the ardent curiosity to explore why I haven’t changed back to my own clothes, surfaces… I tell myself it’s because my sweater is still damp from the storm. I tell myself it has nothing to do with the level of comfort Jack’s sweater offers, or his scent that still lingers on the collar.

“You’re quiet back there. Ankle okay?” Jack pulls back, visibly shortening his strides as he looks down at my leg.

“No, it’s not that, the ankle is fine,” I reply. “I was just thinking about work.”

I lie, letting my thoughts drift to the hotel where I have every intention of packing up and getting back to the city as soon as the next flight will allow. Five-star luxury be damned – I just want to be in my apartment surrounded by my things.

“Most people come out to places like this to forget about work.” He shrugs, and I recall we never did revisit the conversation about the situation he’s dealing with back…wherever it is he’s from.

“You’re forgetting I never meant to be out here .” And one night in a tent doesn’t suddenly make me a woman of the forest. “But, being out here has actually helped…clear a couple of things up. ”

“About work?” he asks, trying hard to make sense of my vague replies.

“Mhmm.” I bite my lip. I’m not sure if it’s an invite to share what’s on my mind or if he’s just distracting me from the swarms of flies that seem to be doubling with every curve in the trail. “I’m going for a promotion, and I needed to figure out a way to give myself an edge. I guess I figured it out.”

“Then this whole ordeal wasn’t a total bust,” he replies. I look over to see him watching me carefully.

“Right,” I say absently, my thoughts drifting back to work. About something foggy I’ve been thinking about, something that hasn’t yet formed solid edges. Something I can’t wait to outline when I get back home. Something I thought about while distracting myself from the horror of sleeping with my makeup on for the first time since college. Something that might just give me the advantage I need. Apart from this whole fake hike thing. Something that’s actually real.

“I guess I can see why this place appeals to you, sort of.” I shrug. “I mean obviously it’s gross,” I say quickly. “But it’s peaceful. In fact, I also wouldn’t mind finding somewhere to escape to whenever I need to catch my breath.” I remember what Jack said earlier about his job being nuts and how he needed the trails to decompress. “But ew, not here. God no.” I shake my head, earning an eye roll and a smirk from him.

We follow the path—an actual path this time—for another twenty minutes or so until I remember something I want to ask before we inevitably part ways.

“I meant to ask earlier…if you don’t go by Jack anymore, what do I call you? You know, for the story I tell my grandkids about the time I drove a car off a cliff.”

We stop in front of an enormous wooden structure, and I figure that we’ve reached the tower at last. Though for some reason, the arrival doesn’t fill me with the relief I’d imagined.

“Why don’t you just stick with Jack,” he says, before adding a little softer, “I don’t mind it so much when you say it.”

A heavy set of footsteps, accompanied by a deep voice coming from a rocky set of stairs around the side of the tower, keeps the conversation from going any further. Perhaps for the best, since a part of me wants to ask why it’s suddenly okay to call him a name he’d made me believe he hated. Maybe touching someone with your morning boner changed things…

“Up here.” A broad-shouldered man with light brown hair, and mirrored aviators signals to us. “Everything good?”

Mountain Rescue. Thank the lord.

“This one’s a little far from home.” Jack smirks at the man who’s wearing a white shirt with a dark olive vest zipped over the top. Then he’s resting his eyes on me, his body stiffening, his posture giving off something final and definitive. “He’ll take care of you.” He nods. “Good luck with everything, Sara. Keep the sweater.”

Before I can utter a word, he’s already striding in the opposite direction, steering off the path, and cutting through the thick underbrush. It’s not long before he disappears entirely into the wilderness. The time spent with him already feels like its dissolving into a memory.

“You coming?” the deep voice calls from over my shoulder. “There’s a doctor waiting in the tower to examine you, then the chopper will get you off the mountain.” He points to the top of the tower where I assume there’s a landing pad.

“My car—” I begin but the man cuts me off.

“A team’s already performing the recovery. Don’t worry, it’s being taken care of. You can relax and focus on getting out of here. Sounds like you’ve been through quite the ordeal.”

The rest is a blur.

There’s the long climb to the small room in the tower where a kind, white-haired female doctor checks me over. And the even longer climb to the top of the tower after I’m granted the all clear. And finally, the ride in the helicopter that takes me away from the mountain where my entire life felt like it flashed before my eyes.

All of it disappears in a flash.

Even the journey from the manicured grounds of Whistling Acres to the hotel lobby passes without so much as a thought. I don’t even flinch when the girl at the reception desk sourly informs me they’ll be charging me an extra hundred dollars to replace my missing room key.

The thing that finally shocks me from this haze is the discovery of a butt naked guy sprawled across my bed, whipped cream doused over his crotch, and a big ripe strawberry in his grinning mouth.