Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
Avoid the mirror, avoid the mirror, avoid the mirror.
I repeat the words in my head like a mantra as I exit the bathroom stall.
My eyes remain lowered when I approach the sink as if I’m ashamed of my own reflection.
I made a pact with myself not to be concerned with my appearance, and I’m sticking to it, even though I’m dying to pretty myself up just a little.
And, yes, it’s one hundred percent because of my broody hiking chaperone.
Imagine going on a date with the hottest man you’ve ever seen, except the date begins while you’re slobbing it out on the sofa, no makeup, days past hair-wash day, and you’re not even allowed to look in the mirror and fix any of it.
“Hey, how’s the Canyon treating you?”
“Sheetcake! You scared me!” I bring a hand to my chest, while the lady from the restaurant smiles at my reflection in the mirror. And there goes my whole don’t look at yourself or take any selfies goal.
Oof. I pull my hat off, and hello, Hermione Granger hair. No, scratch that. I look like Hagrid after playing a three-hour set in a sweaty bar.
“Sorry I scared you,” the woman says and palms her cheeks with a grimace.
My heart is still galloping as I replace my hat, exhaling a sharp breath and settling into a smile. “We haven’t officially met. I’m Willow,” I say into the mirror, lifting my hand in a wave.
“I’m Jerrica,” she adds with a fluttery laugh and steps forward, pulling a twig from my shoulder.
“Thanks, and the hike has been great,” I lie. The only great thing so far is Jack.
“Doesn’t hurt having a hunky man tagging along with you, huh?” Her mouth curls into a smirk while she shoots me a sidelong glance.
“He’s only doing it because I’m blackmailing him.
You won’t believe the dirt I have on the guy,” I tell her, nodding like it will make me more convincing.
Internally, I’m shaking my head, because I have no idea where any of that came from.
Sometimes the words just roll out of my mouth, and I can’t stop them.
“But, yeah, it helps having a big ol’ muscled man around to do the heavy lifting,” I tack on to soften my story.
“Ain’t that the truth?” She giggles, shaking her wet hands over the sink before smoothing them over the cool-toned dark hair that draws my eye away from her pretty features.
That’s the thing about having the wrong hair tone.
No matter how beautiful a face may be, a hair color too cool or too warm will be the first thing the eye lands on.
It’s a shame she’s covering her natural copper red, if her roots are any indication.
The splay of freckles on her fair skin also makes me hope she’s reapplying sun protection often.
“Okay, I just have to say, I’m loving your whole vibe.” She gestures with her open palm, miming a circle over me. “It’s practical but so fun!”
“Oh, thank you.” I definitely haven’t been expecting to hear that compliment over the next few days, but I’m thrilled that my intentional color choices are having the desired effect.
She scrunches her nose with a self-deprecating smile before prancing into a restroom stall.
A minute later, the toilet flushes, and she’s gliding out, washing her hands a second time while her eyes scrutinize every inch of me.
Suddenly, she pastes on a sunny grin. “I have to know where you got those pants!”
“These old things? I just had the mice in my cellar sew them for me,” I reply with a little too much faux enthusiasm. I’m not one to shy away from fashion talk, but something about her compliments feels a little forced.
Jerrica throws her head back, letting out a tinkling laugh. “Well, I love how all your colors are so…sunny. Everything matches, and your sweet, bubblegum vibe is just adorable.”
“Thanks.” I crack a smile, drying my hands on my pants and struggling to ignore my reflection and my catastrophic hair. “Good luck with the rest of your hike,” I tell her with a wave, and her eyes squish into little slits when she reinforces her smile.
I exit the restroom as two tourist helicopters hover noisily, disturbing the scenery before they continue.
Golden cliffs once again glow among the fading light, like they, too, are exhaling after the unforgiving midday heat has finally surrendered.
The shadows pooling at their bases hint at the dangers I don’t want to acknowledge.
My hand goes to my stomach with a slow exhale as I try to calm my nerves.
This pairing with Jack isn’t a date, but the butterflies in my stomach didn’t get the memo.
After everything that’s happened today, it’s easier to cling to these flutters than face the far more unsettling weight of lurking threats.
Jack paces off in the distance, his dark head bowed over his phone. His broad shoulders create a hero-worthy silhouette against the retreating sun.
I turn my head, doing a double take when Brandon disappears behind a tree.
When I look over my shoulder, Jack is still scowling at the device in his hands, so I decide to follow Brandon just far enough that Jack can still see me.
There are like fifty people camping here, plenty of eyes and ears everywhere, so really, what’s the harm if I’m not chaperoned for a few minutes?
I’m an adult, I think to myself and roll my eyes. It makes sense to follow that lead.
As tired as I am, the chance to experience the scenery without Marigold on my back is also too tempting to ignore.
I follow Brandon from a distance, hiding behind a bush while he snakes his way to one of the more secluded campsites.
He pulls out a phone similar to Jack’s and sits on the picnic table, his hand raking through his hair as he stares at the device. I note two tents, but no sign of Chad.
It’s all a bit anticlimactic, but I suppose it’s good to know one’s possible enemies.
This mystery Jack is trying to solve has barnacled itself to my list of pursuits.
The canyon is offering me a morsel of purpose with the opportunity to be a part of something bigger than myself, and I’d be crazy not to take it.
A grimace pulls on my face when I realize I’ve ventured a little farther away than intended. Let’s hope Sir Grumpypants isn’t puffing steam from his ears by the time I get back.
The gurgling trickle of the creek whispers the promise of respite to my tired feet, and I can’t deny the invitation to dip my toes in the cool water.
Flip flops probably aren’t the best footwear for walking downhill or stepping over slippery rocks, but it’ll only take a few seconds to refresh my dogs and pretend I’m a princess lounging beside a magical pool before turning back into a sweaty troll and hurrying back to our campsite.
A small path between two plots leads me down to the stream, and I frolic right in, not even removing my flip-flops.
The shock of cold elicits a gasp, but I still wish I could dive right in.
The water dances around my ankles, and I close my eyes, inhaling the smell of dust, sagebrush, and heat-baked rock.
This feels like a gold star and a pat on the head from the canyon—a little well done for enduring its tests and making it this far.
Stomping echoes near, disrupting the peaceful whispers of the river. I turn to find Jack lumbering toward me. Two breaths later, I’m yanked back and hoisted over a shoulder with delicate control.
“Jack Benedict, you put me down right now!” I give his muscled shoulder blade a solid pat. “This is beneath you!”
“Stop wriggling,” he grunts, and I gasp when I feel a pinch on my upper thigh.
“I’ll have you know we’d be married in some cultures after what you just did, Mr. Fitzwilliam.”
“Still not my last name. Woman! Stop kicking,” he demands in a gravelly voice. The man is hiking uphill with me over his shoulder without even so much as a mildly exhausted huff or pause in his confident steps. And he’s still wearing a backpack with half his stuff inside, too.
For all I know, he’s planning my murder.
There must be something very wrong with me, because I’m not even one bit upset about this predicament, although I would’ve liked to soak my feet a bit longer first. I can’t, however, let Jack know how much I’m enjoying this, because my new joy in life is pushing his buttons.
He continues walking, jostling me around over his shoulder as I muse once again about what season he might be. I’d give anything to get him into my stylist’s chair so I can drape him in color swatches and figure it out. I’m guessing he’s somewhere in the Autumn season.
I’m still lost in these delicious thoughts when I’m hoisted upright, sliding down his front like there’s glue between us. My cheeks heat as our eyes lock together, his hands gently curled around my waist.
“For someone who doesn’t like being touched, you sure are quick to manhandle me.” My voice comes out breathy.
He folds his arms, and his only response is a grunt, but those eyes are tracking every movement I make, no doubt ready to catch me if I decide to sprint.
I take a step back and dust my hands on my butt. Why? I have no idea. There’s no dirt on my butt. But I’m flustered by his nearness. His name is listed in the dictionary under the word conundrum.
“Now what? Are you keeping me captive?”
“Trying to keep you safe, Princess, seeing as you’re not very good at it. What were you doing out there anyway?”
I purse my lips, giddy at the opportunity to stir the pot.
It’s quite obvious he’s having a very strong reaction to a mildly concerning situation, and I wonder what happened to make this man think he has to save everybody.
If I come right out and ask him, he’ll just clam up, like a porcupine, all prickly and determined not to let anyone close.
This requires a different approach—a sneak attack. He won’t even see it coming.
“I can’t go divulging my secrets.” I cross my arms. “How do I know I can trust you?”
He continues to stare, unfolding a muscled arm to pull out a badge hanging around his neck.
“Pfff,” I scoff, adding an eyeroll because I know it annoys him. Or maybe he loves it, but he’s still in denial about my allure. “Anyone can buy a badge, and those who have real ones can still be A-holes. I need to know what makes you tick. We need a test.”
“You need to give me a test before you can take your own safety seriously?”
“You want my secrets, I need to know you’re not a psychopath. What if you’re a doll collector or you like jazz?” I narrow my eyes.
Jack doesn’t flinch. “You are a very strange woman, and nobody likes jazz. They just pretend to.”
“Thank you. And I’m glad we can agree on something. How did you find me, anyway?”
“I followed the sound of someone humming ‘Just Around The Riverbend’,” he drawls, a frown cut sharply across his face.
“Oh.” I’d forgotten I was humming. The winding creek and current life circumstances made it feel appropriate. “Shall we commence with our game?” I push ahead with a smile.
He sighs. “If we must.”
“We must.” I nod, finding a rock to perch on and folding my hands in my lap. “Tell me the first thing that comes to your mind when I say a word. Don’t overthink it, just blurt out whatever jumps into your head.”
I get an eyeroll and a nod in response, the faintest suggestion of his lips curling before his mouth draws into a grim line, and his shoulders squaring like he’s bracing for an inquisition.
“First word: night.” I begin.
“Armor,” he replies without hesitating.
“Green.”
“Uniform.”
Interesting.
“Freckle.”
“Cute,” he returns, surprising me.
“Failure.”
“Unacceptable.”
“Jack.” His name falls from my lips in a softened tone, my eyes asking him things I know he keeps barricaded. “Failure is how we learn. It’s how we grow.”
“Not if it costs too much. Is it my turn now?” His posture is once again rigid, defenses strengthened.
I just want to hug him, but something in his expression begs me not to pick at the wound he’s revealed.
It’s almost painful, reeling in my instinct to draw out more of his secrets.
But this bear needs space before trying to dig at the thorn lodged in his paw.
“Have at it, Mr. Wilson.”
One dark brow rises with a slow nod, a small grin fighting itself onto his face. “Pineapple.”
“Pizza,” I reply, earning me a narrowed gaze.
“Tomato.”
“Denethor.”
A small puff of air escapes his nose like he’s putting every ounce of energy into not laughing. “You had that one ready to go, didn’t you?”
“Locked and loaded.” I tap my head with a smug smile.
“Pie.”
“You really need to move away from the food theme.” I stand, withholding a giggle.
“I think I’m hungry. Are you satisfied with my non-psychopath status?” He slides his palm over mine, pulling me gently behind him.
“I’m starting to doubt your aversion to touch.”
“I’m testing a theory,” is all he says, not looking back.
“And what theory is that?”
“I’ll let you know once I have the answer.”
I don’t fight the smile that lifts my cheeks, feeling quite content despite the winds that blow ominously through the crevices surrounding us and all the things that want to keep me from getting to the other side.