Chapter 2 Gunnar
GUNNAR
I set a steady pace along the forest trail, shortening my strides just enough for the group to follow.
There are ten of them today—mostly tourists—their too-loud voices carrying through the trees and bouncing off the trunks in a way that sets my teeth on edge.
I stay quiet and keep walking, adjusting the pack on my back, letting my good shoulder take most of the weight.
The path is flat here, deceptively safe looking in the warm afternoon light. But sunshine brings snowmelt, and snowmelt brings mud—the thick, squelching kind that sucks at your boots and doesn’t let go easily. Ankle-snapping mud.
“Keep left,” I call as we pass a thick patch of it, which slopes down toward the swollen creek like a lethal Slip n’ Slide.
As we clear the mud, I shoot a glance over my shoulder.
I don’t look back often. Just enough to make sure nobody is straggling behind or wandering too far to take photos.
Satisfied that they’re all still in tow, I quicken the pace, the can of bear spray at my hip swinging with each step as we make straight for the lake up ahead.
Hikers don’t request this trail often. It’s long and heavily forested, with trees blocking the view most of the way. But it’s one of my favorites. The rustling leaves, the babbling creek, the fresh scent of pine and moss in the air—it beats a wide-open vista for me every time.
But I’d like it a whole lot more if I were alone.
Herding city folk through the woods for a living was never part of the plan. I’m a lumberjack by trade, and I’d go back to it in a heartbeat if I could. But my shoulder injury put an end to that. Haven’t been able to swing an axe since it happened.
Might never be able to again.
In the meantime, I still need to earn money, and guided hikes are a pretty reliable source of income out here.
Crave County draws tourists all year round, and now that June is approaching, there’s no shortage of work.
Things could be worse. Hell, I still get to spend my days in the forest, and most of the hikers do as they’re told and follow my lead without question.
But every group has that one cocky asshole who thinks they know better.
This group is no exception.
I clocked him as soon as the hike began: a gangly, greasy-looking college kid who spent the first five minutes trying to walk level with me, like he had something to prove.
When he couldn’t keep up any longer, he started complaining loudly to his girlfriend, asking why she’d insisted on a guided hike when he could have found the way himself.
I spy him now in my peripheral vision as we near the lake. He’s running ahead through the trees, clambering over the rocks to my left. He scales them awkwardly, then stops in front of the creek, bending as if he’s about to jump.
“Hey!” I bark. “Stick to the trail.”
The kid looks around with a sneer. “I’m taking a shortcut, man.”
“That’s no shortcut. The other side of that bank is all marsh. Will swallow you up like quicksand, and I sure as hell won’t be jumping in after you.”
For a second, I think he might jump anyway out of sheer spite. But eventually, he turns around and begins the walk of shame back to the group, his face bright red as he rejoins his girlfriend.
“You could have hired a guide who’s less of an asshole,” he mutters to her, loud enough for me to hear.
I don’t dignify the whiny brat with a response.
My job isn’t to be nice or stroke egos; my job is shepherding the group through the forest and getting them out again in one piece.
People always underestimate the wilderness.
When the sun’s out and the forest is lush and green, they feel safe.
But all it takes is one wrong move. One mistake.
Doesn’t matter how experienced you are—the mountain can still chew you up and spit you back out.
Hell, I should know that better than anyone.
The chatter behind me dies down as we reach the lakeside.
I hear a few delighted gasps, and even the college kid whistles like he’s impressed.
The water is bright turquoise, so vivid it doesn’t even look real, and several hikers reach for their phones, snapping photos.
But I’ve never seen a photo that does this place justice.
“You can rest here for ten minutes,” I grunt, doing a quick head count.
They do as I say, lounging on the rocks and pulling out water bottles and snacks.
I keep my distance, trying to avoid being dragged into their conversations as I look out across the water.
Locals call this place Lover’s Lake. It’s an old superstition—if you enter Lover’s Lake and wait, your true love will appear on the shore.
Bullshit, obviously, but I’m well-versed in the folklore of Cherry Mountain, even if it’s all made up.
“Five more minutes,” I call to the group. “Then we move.”
As the time ticks down, I suddenly feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
My skin tightens, adrenaline spiking as I realize I’m being watched.
I can feel it. Living in the woods sharpens your senses, your instincts, and right now, mine are screaming at me that there’s something lurking in the trees behind the lake.
Crack.
My head snaps toward the sound. A twig breaking underfoot. Faint but unmistakable. I keep my gaze fixed on the trees, straining my ears for another sound, but I can’t hear anything over the group’s loud chatter.
“Quiet,” I order, raising a hand. “Stop talking.”
They must hear the warning in my voice because they shut up instantly. I don’t look back at them. Instead, I step toward the tree line, scanning the bushy pines for signs of movement. My hand drifts to my bear spray.
“Someone out there?” I call.
There’s a beat of silence. Then I hear movement in the pines.
A footstep.
Definitely human.
I catch a flash of bright pink fabric, then suddenly, a woman steps out of the shadowy forest and onto the sunlit lakefront. I stare at her, and the world turns slow and heavy around me, blurring at the edges.
Holy shit.
She’s beautiful. The most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
Her eyes are as blue as Lover’s Lake, bright and glinting, and my heart thumps as I stare into them.
She’s flushed, cheeks red, her pouty pink lips parting as she holds my gaze for several beats too long.
I can’t resist taking in the rest of her—the thick curves of her body, filling out her leggings and tank top in a way that makes my blood run hot and fast.
Where the hell did this angel come from?
She looks too perfect to be real. Too soft and innocent. A lock of warm brown hair has escaped her ponytail, and I’m itching to touch it. Tuck it behind her ear. Run my fingers over the smooth skin of her face.
Fuck, what is wrong with me?
It feels like I’ve been looking at her forever, but in reality, it’s barely been a few seconds when the girl finally breaks eye contact. Her gaze flits to the group, and she raises her hand, shooting us all an apologetic grimace.
“Sorry,” she says, “I didn’t mean to scare anyone. I’m just out here for a run.”
My breath catches at the sound of her voice. It’s so damn sweet. So addictive. I’m already aching to hear it again.
Behind me, the group resumes their conversations, relaxing now they know there’s no danger. But I don’t think I’ve ever been less relaxed in my life. My whole body feels like it’s burning up, and all my blood is rushing downward, making my cock swell beneath my boxers.
Fuck.
I’ve never felt this kind of need before. Hell, I’m forty-four, and I’ve never been with a woman. Never been tempted. Never needed anyone. But one look at this angel, and I’ve totally lost control of my body—four decades of desire crashing into me all at once.
Goddammit, Gunnar.
Pull yourself together.
She looks about half my age—early twenties at most. Barely a woman. I should know better. Hell, I’ve already been staring for way too long, my mind racing with thoughts while my mouth stays silent. I need to say something. Anything.
“You shouldn’t be out here alone.”
My words sound rough, harsher than I intended.
But running on the trails alone is dangerous.
It’s snowmelt season and we’re deep in the wilderness—anything could happen—and the thought sends a surge of protectiveness through me.
I don’t want to let this angel out of my sight, but she doesn’t look impressed by my warning. She cocks her head and frowns at me.
“I can handle myself. I know these woods.”
“You local?”
“Yep. Born and raised in Cherry Hollow,” she says.
My heart stutters. This girl has been breathing the same mountain air, walking the same paths as me, and I’ve never laid eyes on her until this moment.
Hell, I guess it shouldn’t surprise me. Before I took up the guide job last year, I stayed away from the trails.
I wanted to avoid hikers and tourists—chop wood in peace.
But if I’d known this woman was out here, I’d have walked these trails every damn day just for a glimpse of her.
“Still dangerous,” I say finally. “A lot of wet ground around here. Marshland. Big patch of it about a—”
“—mile west from here.” She finishes my sentence. “It starts near Old Miner’s Pass and ends over there by the creek.” Her arm extends, a finger pointing to the spot in the trees where the college kid almost jumped. “There are also patches around Eagle Eye Lookout, but they’re not deep.”
“Hm.”
I underestimated this girl. Clearly. And judging by the twinkle in her eye, she knows it.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Everly. You?”
“Gunnar.”
“Nice to meet you, Gunnar.” She softens, her plump lips curving into a smile as she says my name. “Thanks for being concerned about me, but I promise I’m always careful out here.”
I make a noise deep in my throat. It’s all I can manage.
I believe she can handle herself, but it’s not enough to calm the wild instincts still raging through me.
The desperate urge to watch over her. Keep her safe.
Protect her from the dangers of the forest, the mountain, hell, the whole damn world.
Behind me, I can hear people getting restless, ready to start moving again.
Everything in me screams that I should stay.
Lose myself in those bright blue eyes and never find a way out.
But Everly has already started to notice the impatient murmurs coming from behind us, her eyes flitting to the hikers.
I get a sudden urge to drown the whole damn group in the lake.
“I better let you get back to your hike,” Everly says, her gaze finding mine once more. “Sorry again if I scared your group before.”
Fuck my group, I think bitterly. But all I say is, “Don’t mention it.”
“Maybe I’ll see you around the forest.”
My chest tightens. “Maybe you will.”
I’ll make damn sure of it.
With a soft smile, she turns around and heads for the trail, going back the same way she came.
As she starts to jog, her ponytail swishes, catching the light like molten caramel.
I can’t help looking at her ass, thick and rounded like the rest of her, and I have to grit my teeth to stifle a groan.
The way she moves is fucking intoxicating, and I keep my eyes on her curves until she disappears down the trail, the trees swallowing her up.
Gone.
For a moment, I don’t move. I feel weirdly hollow—like Everly took my insides with her when she ran away—but I keep it together enough to herd the tourists up the next part of the forest trail.
We walk for miles, but my mind is still back at Lover’s Lake, remembering the way my name sounded on Everly’s lips.
Shit. What has this girl done to me?
I need to forget about her. Forget that I ever met her. A big mountain brute like me shouldn’t be thinking about a curvy young beauty like Everly—all softness and innocence. I’m old enough to be her father, goddammit.
It’s not right. Not at all.
My mind knows that. Keeps repeating it over and over, like it’s trying to drill sense into me.
But my body isn’t listening. Hell, it stopped listening the second she stepped out of those trees, and no matter how loudly my rational brain screams that she’s a stranger, my primal instincts scream louder.
And they’re screaming that this woman is already mine.