Chapter 22
Clementine
All week, dinner has become our rhythm.
Monday, a hike followed by steaks at Daisy’s.
Tuesday, our fastest kayak run yet, capped off with a box of maple bars from Yessi’s that Alec insisted counted as an appetizer.
Wednesday and Thursday, we split one of Gran’s chicken pot pies.
Friday, after sprints left me seeing stars, I made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and he ruined the romance by chasing it with one of those egg goop packs he swears by.
I’ve started to like working at Cody’s too—choosing pieces for the lodge instead of wasting hours behind the counter.
This morning, I was up at five, hauling treasures from Trudy’s, laying down a burgundy rug in the kitchen, swapping out frames for photos I printed for Finn’s room and the living room.
The lodge is beginning to look like something real.
His handcrafted tables and chairs alongside the stuff I picked out.
A sectional wrapping around the fireplace.
Adventure books scattered on the mantel.
It feels alive now, and so does he.
An hour ago, we finished the final walkthrough downstairs. After the qualifiers, we’ll tackle the half-finished bathrooms upstairs. But downstairs looks immaculate. We did it. We.
He looks more at ease than he ever has. I feel it too.
He crouches at the new fire pit outside the lodge, right at the edge, where the porch gives way to the lake. Low under his breath, he hums Mozart’s Symphony No. 40 in G minor.
The melody drifts through the damp air, threaded with smoke and pine. Behind him, the sun bleeds gold, catching on his shoulders like light can’t resist him.
Being out in nature makes me feel feral.
Bare feet on slick rocks, fog sitting heavy over the lake, grass tickling my ankles. I’d never go barefoot in New York, even when my shoes dug craters in the backs of my ankles, but here I used to race puddle to puddle from the lodge to my grandparents’ house. I love that feeling.
“Are you happy? Because I think you’re happy.” I nudge Alec’s shoulder with mine.
“Ecstatic.” He says it as flat as a stone, face as carved as a gargoyle.
“Uh-huh. Except your eyebrow twitched. Which means you’re practically giddy.”
The corner of his mouth threatens treason against his stoicism. “And you’re grinning so hard I’m worried your face might split.”
“Can’t help it.” I fling my arms toward the water, the lodge, the whole miracle of it. “I feel like it’s the night before a recital. There is zero chance I’m sleeping.”
“I’m the same before a summit day,” he says, stacking kindling.
“I’d toss, stretch, anything to keep my muscles warm. That’s how I feel right now. I’m buzzing.” I hop onto one of the split logs circling the pit. My legs can’t sit still.
“Buzz carefully,” he mutters. “I need you in one piece.”
That makes me hop down.
“Would you look at that sunset?” I stand in awe. “Before this month, I don’t even remember the last time I saw a sunset. Isn’t that sad?”
“Last time I checked, the sun still set in New York,” he says, pulling a knife and flint from his cargo pocket, bouncing them in his palm.
“Thank you for that piece of science, Einstein.” I hip-bump his shoulder. His smirk nearly knocks me straight into the lake—and for a second, I consider taking a dip. Wonder if he’d follow me. Probably not. He’d probably just stand there and tell me to be careful, the infuriating bastard.
“I worked in the mornings,” I say instead, eyes on the blood-orange sky splitting open across the lake. “Ballet started after two, sometimes went until midnight. I barely looked up at the sky. I forgot what it felt like to just watch it.”
“That’s tragic.” He looks at me then, not the sunset, though his golden irises are lit with the burn of it. “Do you miss New York?”
“Some days. But I’m happy here. I never thought I’d like kayaking as much as I do.” I wrinkle my nose. “Hiking’s okay. At least, the parts without elevation.”
“Then it’s just a walk.”
“No. A walk is Grand Central to Central Park. Hiking is dirt and bugs and sweat.”
“You get dirtier on the subway.”
“Okay, mountain man. Whatever.” I throw my hand up in mock surrender, then glance back at the lodge. The siding gleams like it’s been photoshopped into real life, trim sharp against the flower beds. “Think Finn will like it? He gets here Tuesday, right?”
“Yeah. Couldn’t have done it without you.”
It’s embarrassing how much that warms me. I smother it with a grin. “And I couldn’t have done twenty push-ups if my life depended on it. Now I throw soil bags like I’m auditioning for World’s Strongest Woman. Cody practically knighted me MVP stocker of the year.”
“You did good this week,” he says, gaze pinning mine. He’s still in his hiking gear, a navy beanie pulled low, hair curling out in stubborn tufts.
“Careful.” My grin turns sly. “Your compliments might go to my head.”
“Then earn another.” He nods at the stack of logs beside me.
I make a show of rolling my eyes, so I reach too fast and hiss when bark slices my finger. “Ow. Damn it.” The log thuds to the ground as I stick my index finger in my mouth.
“Let me.” He’s already in front of me, dropping to his knees. I hesitate, then give him my hand. His thumb traces my palm, skin rough against mine, and the touch makes my heart do something it shouldn’t.
“It’s shallow,” he says. And then, without warning, he lifts my hand higher and slips my finger between his lips.
My brain flatlines.
It’s hot. Wet. His tongue presses lightly against the sting, and he’s so casual about it, like this is the obvious solution, like sucking the pain out of me is first aid.
Heat streaks up my neck.
I can’t move, can’t breathe, watching him do it with that impossible calm.
And the worst part? The way my body answers before I can even think.
Yes. More of this.
My brain stutters.
What. On. Earth. Is. Happening?
My free hand clamps the log beside me, grounding myself, because the rest of me is tilting toward him like a magnet. Heat coils low in my stomach, spreading everywhere. I’m going to combust.
A treacherous part of me wants to rake my other hand across the bark, fill it with splinters, just to see how his mouth would feel there too. When he pulls back, he spits in the grass, blinking up at me through dark lashes. His pupils have dilated, engulfing the gold in his eyes.
“Got most of it.”
“Most?” My voice is a stranger.
“There’s still a piece,” he says, like it’s nothing. “Hold still.”
Time stretches. My body feels like a stage, every nerve en pointe, ready to collapse or take flight. His mouth closes over my finger again. Warmth spirals up my arm, teeth grazing lightly, making me jolt.
“You’re not holding still,” he says against my skin.
My thoughts go dark, tumbling into a place I shouldn’t visit. I want to kiss him. Right here. Right now. I’m done pretending. I want to break every no-partner rule I swore by.
“Neither are you,” I breathe back.
That earns me the faintest smirk before he goes back to it, infuriatingly thorough, like we’re keeping score, and he’s determined to win.
Behind us, the stack of kindling slumps into itself, but under my ribs, something else has caught fire.
He drops my hand. “There. Gone.”
“You sucked a splinter out of my hand,” I say, squinting at him, not knowing how to speak or move or do anything.
“I’ve done it for other people.” His attempt at casualness falls flat, the tension still snapping between us. “Next time, don’t grab firewood so carelessly.”
“Noted.”
“Now wait here. I have a surprise for you.” And then he runs—sprints—toward the lodge.
I know he felt it too. Whatever that was.
My heart is still racing, body still tilted toward where he sat. I try to remind myself to think about the debt. About the qualifier. About anything else.
But I can’t.
Because I want him.