Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
We climb into a park ranger car, and as the door shuts, I look up at the sky smeared with midnight hues.
Indigo bleeds into violet, charcoal is sprinkled with silver.
It’s messy, imperfect, and stunning. Pocahontas sang about painting with the colors of the wind, but I’d much rather paint with these.
Each day, the trail shifted from cool mountain purples to warm canyon ambers; every shade felt like it tugged a thread inside me.
Each hour layered a new tone over the last, like the canyon was showing me a palette I never knew I was allowed to love.
With every change in light, I felt more certain—this is the medium I’m meant to work with. This is what I’m meant to do.
Not sports. Not stats. Not marketing.
Color.
Transformation.
Identity.
If nature can reveal itself through shifting hues, then maybe I can use color to help people see who they are.
Maybe the canyon wasn’t just showing off each day.
Maybe it was calling me home.
These thoughts bring a grateful smile to my face as we drive, both of us silent but content for now. Really, I think we’re both ridiculously excited about a shower. At least I am. Jack may be used to roughing it for this long, but I’m certainly not.
He parks outside one of the nearby lodges, and it feels like I’ve only just watched him open his door before he’s at my side, helping me out of the car. He grabs bags from the back seat before opening the trunk to take out our backpacks.
I’m basically sleepwalking as Jack escorts me to a door he already has a key for.
“I knew you’d make a great pack mule.” I grin.
“Hopefully I don’t smell like one, too.”
“Nope, you smell delicious.” I turn a sleepy grin to him, smushing my nose against his shoulder.
“You’re a little weirdo, you know that?” He snorts before unlocking the door.
“One of my perks.” I smile, stepping into the cozy, wood-paneled room, gently lit by mismatching bedside lamps and the joy of bucket lists ticked off.
When I spot the queen bed with a poofy white comforter, it whispers for me to climb in.
Whether or not I’ll be able to stay awake long enough to shower before passing out is the only question.
But then I catch a glimpse of my dust-covered arms, and it’s suddenly an easy decision. These sheets would be a different color in the morning if I didn’t wash off the remnants of the canyon still clinging to my skin.
Jack places the things he’s carrying beside the bed, shifting awkwardly after removing his hat like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. “Bathroom’s all yours.” He gestures toward the door before one hand finally settle on his hips.
“Thank you. I was prepared to fight you for it.” I yawn, turning in the direction of the bathroom at the end of the room.
I’m deliriously spent and consider having a nap on the shower floor once I step into the hot spray of water, thankful that Dr. Roberts put a waterproof bandaid over my stitches. It’s only mildly mortifying that she could tell I needed a shower as soon as possible.
I double shampoo, marvelling at the dust-tinged water washing down the drain as the steam reminds my pores that we aren’t in fact homeless. My limbs are heavy by the time I’m rinsing out conditioner, and I have to psych myself up for the task of drying off and getting dressed.
And then it dawns on me…I have no clean clothes. An audible whimper escapes my lips while I rub my hands down my face. With a slightly crunchy hotel towel wrapped around my body, I wrap another around my hair just as a knock sounds on the bathroom door.
“You okay in there?” Jack’s voice sounds muffled from the other side, but I can still hear the concern in his tone.
“Um…mostly…” I bite my lip, assessing my options.
I’m so tired I could fall asleep right on this speckled bathroom tile.
My lips flap as I remind myself of everything I accomplished over the past half a week.
If I can tackle crossing the Grand Canyon looking like a wet koala, I can survive asking Jack for a spare shirt to sleep in.
Heck, I might even have fun trying to make him blush.
I square my shoulders, opening the door with as much dignity as I can fake. Jack jumps back.
“So…uh…I have nothing clean to wear.” I tighten the slightly too small towel around my body, enjoying Jack’s look of trepidation, as if I’m a wild animal who could attack at any second.
“You wouldn’t happen to have a clean shirt I could borrow, would you?
Actually, I’ll be honest, you probably won’t get it back.
Same with the hoodie, by the way. But if you have one you’re willing to part with, that would be amazing. ”
He doesn’t speak, just swallows and holds out a large brown paper gift bag. My eyes ping from him to the bag, and he blinks, snapping out of a daze.
“I got these for you. I hope they’re okay.
” He slides the twine handles of the bag over my fingers and drags a hand down his face.
“There’s underwear, too. I didn’t choose the underwear.
Dr. Roberts did…for you, I mean. It’s all new, from the gift shop.
Except I did put one of my T-shirts in there in case you preferred…
uh, yeah, okay. I’m gonna…go. Over there.
” He points to the bed, a beautiful pink blush peaking out from behind his stubble as he rushes away.
While I’m thoroughly enjoying this flustered side of him, I think my plan to rattle him has backfired, because it’s only made him that much more appealing and impossible to let go.
Call it exhaustion or the fact that this man keeps making it incredibly hard not to fall hard, but my eyes are suddenly leaking, and I’m at risk of turning into a puddle right here on these chipped bathroom tiles.
I nod my head, sniffing and rapidly blinking the tears away while pretending to peer into the bag.
Do not fall apart yet, Willow. At least wait until you’re alone.
“Thank you,” I manage over the knot in my throat, and then I promptly shut the door, fanning my flaming cheeks with my hand.
Damn you, Jack Jackson. I snort at the thought of his full name.
How am I not supposed to fall head over heels for him, even when the possibility of being rejected feels scarier than the prospect of tumbling into the canyon? He’s making all these sweet gestures, being all kind and protective, yet I can feel he’s still keeping himself guarded.
What happens if I leave tomorrow without this case getting solved?
He keeps saying he wants to get past the case before thinking about a relationship, but there’s obviously more to it than that.
He’s still scared, afraid to take a risk…
on me. And I won’t lie, it stings a little to think he doesn’t see me as being worth the risk.
A yawn snaps me out of my internal processing, reminding me that Jack is probably just as exhausted and will want to use the shower soon.
I take out the clothes he bought for me, rolling my lips when I hold up the oversized coral pink T-shirt with the words “I hiked the Grand Canyon, and all I got was this sore everything.”
There’s also a soft pair of navy sweatpants, a sports bra, underwear, toothbrush and toothpaste, and, because the universe enjoys keeping me humble, a two-pack of men’s cactus-print boxers. At the very bottom is a soft, white T-shirt that’ll fit me like a dress.
I bring it to my nose, nearly going catatonic at the rush of the delicious smell of Jack.
Surely it means something that he put this in here.
And wearing it gives me more opportunity to tease him, which is my new mandate in life.
I pull on the sports bra, followed by his T-shirt and then the boxers, smiling like I’ve just claimed emotional ownership of this man via fabric.
Those pain meds are doing a great job at the moment, because my arm only throbs a little during all my moving.
After brushing my teeth and aggressively towel drying my hair, I’m officially ready to pass out.
There’s a stubborn part of me that’s hoping to get some Jack snuggles too, but if he’s already pulling away, the safest thing for my heart would be to follow his lead.
He’s got another thing coming if he thinks I’m letting him sleep on the floor, though.
I zombie walk out of the bathroom, and Jack pops to stand from his perched position on the foot of the bed. The only bed.
I mean, it’s not like this would be the first time we shared a bed, right? Technically, it’d be our third, considering the time I slept smushed against him in a separate sleeping bag, which absolutely counts.
Jack swallows, his eyes trailing down over his shirt to where it falls mid-thigh on me. His attention seemingly shifts to my coral pink toenails as he runs a hand through his dark hair, and he clears his throat when he finally glances up and meets my amused expression.
“I’m, uh…gonna use the shower.” He points to the bathroom.
I stifle my grin, not wanting to embarrass him, even though seeing him flustered is the cutest thing ever. “Jack?”
“Yeah?” He turns, heat in his gaze.
“Don’t sleep on the floor. I’m gonna be out like a log the second my head hits the pillow, but you should sleep on the bed, too.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.” I flash him a gentle smile, and even though I’m running on one-percent battery life, I just can’t help pushing his buttons.
“While the very fact that you’d sleep on the floor just to make me feel safe is the swooniest thing ever, you’re a big guy, and it can’t be comfortable sleeping on a hard surface with all those already hard muscles.
” I gesture with my palm, making a point of checking out his biceps.
I’m beyond giddy at the flush that creeps up his neck.
He nods, apparently ignoring my comment, but inside I know there’s a laugh or at least a smile he’s holding hostage.
“Sleep on that side.” He points to the pillow farthest away from the door before hastily grabbing his duffel bag and disappearing into the bathroom.
My lips roll in when I hear him muttering behind the closed door.
I climb under the covers on the side Jack indicated, releasing a sigh.
I’m a deboned chicken, limp and unable to move.
I should probably turn my phone on and update my parents and Hayley, but whatever I send is going to come out like a drunk text if I attempt any level of coherence right now.
The springy mattress jostles me awake as Jack sits, the other side of the bed dipping with his weight. “Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.”
“That’s okay,” I whisper, scooting back a little but letting myself soak in this softer version of him—freshly showered in a loose white tank and gray sweatpants, all of his edges smoothed out.
It’s a version of him I already want more of.
It feels like a rare, unguarded glimpse, and the thought that tomorrow might be the last time I see him hits a little too hard.
I’m tired, and my heart is still begging to be guarded, yet I’m desperate to savor this remaining time with him.
He grabs a throw blanket, and instead of climbing under the comforter—womp womp—he settles himself on top, exhaling as he reclines.
He stares at the ceiling, his dark eyelashes brushing his cheeks.
I’m a tiny bit disappointed at the obvious boundary he’s keeping, but this man is nothing if not honorable, and in the privacy of this room, snuggling together under a blanket must seem too tempting or at least too intimate for him, even with tacky mood lighting.
“You knew, didn’t you?” I ask, not accusingly, but curiously, grabbing at any of the threads that’ll give me a few more minutes of this delicious serenity. He turns his head, arching a questioning brow.
“About the photo of me. Before we got to the top,” I clarify.
He turns his head to face up again, his hands linked over his broad chest. They rise with his slow inhale. “Yeah. I got a text shortly after we started the last two miles.”
Then he surprises me by shifting onto his side and facing me with that frown I’ve grown so fond of. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but I’m not sure I’d do it differently. I didn’t want to ruin your big moment or take away from your incredible accomplishment.”
“What, being a magnet for trouble and barely making it out alive?” I snort.
“Don’t downplay it. You had so many valid reasons to quit or take the easy way out. But you stuck with it.”
His cheeks lift, and I must be dreaming, because his face is morphing into the most beautiful wide smile.
His eyes rove over me again, darkening when they land on the collar of his shirt, which I’m very much enjoying wearing.
“You’re amazing, Willow Sinclair. And you should be proud of yourself. I’m proud of you.”
Cue the heart explosion. Why do those words hit every tender spot? Maybe because they’re the very words I’ve been chasing my whole life. But the more significant realization is that I am proud of myself, and that feels like an even bigger win than hearing someone else say it.
“Thank you, Jack Jackson.” I grin.
He scoffs, giving me a look layered with the pain of denying himself something within reach. “Get some sleep.”