Chapter Five
CLAIRE
I don't look back.
The moment my shoes hit the gravel, I keep walking, spine straight, shoulders squared, pretending I'm not shaking or scared shitless right now. Trying my hardest to ignore the pulse hammering in my throat where his words still sit, hot and heavy.
I want you. I don't want to want you. The words won't stop. I turn them over, looking for the angle where they make sense, where I can file them away and move on.
I can't find it. He doesn't know me. He knows my name and where I'm from.
He knows I showed up in Cedar Ridge in the wrong shoes with the wrong attitude, that somewhere behind me, I left a marriage that failed.
That's it. That's the whole list. So why does it feel like more than that? Why does it feel like he looked at me and saw something I haven't even let myself look at yet? I don’t know anything about him. Only that he’s closed-off, former military…
a walking warning label. The kind you read and then do the thing anyway.
So why me?
I'm no one special. At the moment, I'm not even pleasant to be around.
I'm a mess, a woman trying to prove something to herself by climbing rocks and taking a walk through the woods.
There are other women in this group. Prettier women.
Women who actually know what they're doing out here. Who won’t talk back or challenge him, wanting to see what would happen.
But he looked at me. Admitted things that I know would cost him something. I saw it. In the tightness around his mouth, the way his hands curled into fists, physically doing everything in his power to hold himself back.
You know what?
Good.
Let the asshole struggle. Let him suffer. He obviously doesn’t give a shit if we do.
I round the corner of the nearest building, struggling to hold it together. Letting my hands tremble now that he can't see. Counting to ten as my therapist taught me back when I thought divorce was the hardest thing I'd ever have to do.
That was six months ago. Before I learned that grief comes in all different flavors…anger, regret, the particular loneliness of a bed too big for one. Before I signed up for a survival course I have no business taking, led by a man who looks at me like I'm something he wants to break.
Or break into.
I press my palms flat against my thighs and continue breathing. The sun's hot on my shoulders, and I focus on that heat until my hands stop shaking. Until I can pretend I'm not coming apart at the seams.
Then I head to join the rest of the group, who are already gathering near the trailhead, strangers in expensive gear they probably bought yesterday. I spot Dave from check-in, all easy smiles and confidence, and I head toward him.
He’s safe.
And because he doesn't make my stomach clench with something I don’t like or want to acknowledge.
"Hey," he says, falling into step beside me. "Ready to suffer?"
"Absolutely not."
He laughs, unbothered. "That's the spirit. I got the impression this Rowan guy doesn't mess around. I’ve heard he’s got a reputation."
"A reputation for what? Being an asshole?"
He laughs again. "For being the best at what he does. And the worst." Dave adjusts his backpack, "Survival instructor, former military, apparently did some stuff he can't talk about. You know the type."
Actually, I don't. I've never known his type. My ex-husband was soft…soft hands, soft spine when it came to choosing between me and his mother's opinion. Something Rowan definitely isn’t.
I feel him before I see him, that prickle at the back of my neck that makes me want to turn around and run toward him instead of away.
The group stops their chatter as he approaches, all broad shoulders and this don't fuck-with-me energy.
He's changed into a dark gray t-shirt that stretches nicely across his broad chest, sleeves pushed up to reveal inked forearms corded with muscle, veins, and scars I want to trace with my fingertips.
He doesn't look at me. Not even once.
“Everyone ready?” he asks, his voice carrying without effort. "As I said before, this isn't a nature walk. Within these five miles, the elevation gain is two thousand feet. And to reiterate, you fall behind, you get left behind. I don't carry anyone's baggage, physical or emotional. Are we clear?"
There are murmurs of agreement. While I say nothing.
He finally looks at me with those blue eyes, and I feel it like a touch. "Last chance, does anyone have any questions? Now’s your chance."
Dave raises his hand. "What about wildlife? Bears, mountain lions?"
"Make noise. Don't run. If something charges at you, stand your ground." Another glance my way, so fast I almost miss it. "Most predators can smell fear. Don't give them the satisfaction."
He turns and starts up the trail without waiting for a response. The group follows after him, and I'm caught in the current, my sneakers finding minimal traction on loose rock as safety disappears behind us.
The trail starts with a climb that doesn't waste time. And before we even get fifty yards, my calves are screaming, my lungs feeling like they're being squeezed by invisible hands. I focus on my breathing, on the rhythm of each step, trying not to think about how much I suddenly hate cardio.
Behind me, someone wheezes. While another person mumbles about needing a cigarette. But Rowan doesn't slow down.
I keep my eyes on his back. Not because I want to, but because looking anywhere else means acknowledging how badly I'm failing.
Not once does he look back. The group struggles to keep up with him, a line of idiots who paid good money to go through hell, leaving me somewhere in the middle, pretending I belong here.
The sun beats down on us, angry. I can feel the sweat rolling down between my shoulder blades. Not to mention this big ass backpack I'm having to lug around…my own personal sauna, complete with chafing and the slow death of my will to live.
This is what you wanted, Claire. I remind myself. Challenge. Change. Not sitting in an empty house, overthinking why my marriage failed.
"You guys doing okay back there?"
Dave again, not even winded, which I find personally offensive. He's moved up to walk beside me, putting off that cocky confidence that probably works on women who aren't currently obsessed with their emotionally unavailable survival instructor.
"Fine," I lie.
Dave laughs, easily and too friendly. "He knows what he's doing. Apparently, he’s the best guide in the region."
I don't care what he is.
The trail starts to narrow. Jagged rock on one side and a drop-off on the other. It's not a huge one, maybe twenty feet, but it would be enough to break something. I focus on my feet, making sure to step carefully, not about how much I suddenly hate heights.
Rowan stops, and the whole group shuffles to a halt, grateful.
"We'll rest here," he says. "Take five minutes, hydrate, and we keep moving."
I find a flat rock and sit before my legs give out. The view is actually beautiful, which annoys me. Mountains layered blue-gray in the distance, pine trees thick enough to look like a carpet. Clean air that tastes different from city air. I drink from my water bottle and try not to watch Rowan.
But he's watching me.
I see it in my peripheral vision, the way he doesn't turn his head, but his attention shifts. I should look away. I should definitely not make eye contact.
I can’t help myself. I do it anyway.
He doesn't smile, doesn't nod. Holding my gaze for three seconds, four, five, long enough that I feel heat crawl up my neck. Then he turns away and says something to the woman next to him, something about pacing herself, and the moment breaks.
But I felt it. That thing between us, live and electric, the same thing that I felt before we headed out when he crowded my space and I didn't back down.
This is bad. This is very bad. I'm here to find myself, not lose myself in some mountain man with authority issues and shoulders that fill out a shirt like a threat.
"Claire."
I look up. Rowan is standing over me, close enough that I have to tilt my head back. The sun is behind him, turning him into a silhouette. I can't read his expression.
"Yeah."
"You're keeping up." It’s not praise, but an observation. "Most people struggle the first hour."
"I don't like being left dead."
His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but close. "That was for the group. If it makes you feel any better, I'd probably drag you back to the parking lot and dump you there."
"Charming."
He crouches down, bringing us to eye level, and suddenly I can see everything. The dark flecks in his blue, the scar that cuts through his left eyebrow. Let’s just say, I’m close enough to smell him, sweat, pine, something sharp and clean.
"You're pushing too hard," he says, keeping his voice low. "I can see it in your breathing. Slow down, or you'll burn out before lunch."
"Are you worried about me?"
"Worried about my reputation. I can’t have a student passing out on the trail, it’s bad for business."
"Liar."
The word comes out before I can stop it. His eyes narrow, and I feel that twist in my stomach again, the dangerous pull of wanting to see how far I can push him.
"Careful," he says, soft enough that only I can hear it.
"Of what?"
"Thinking you know what I am."
He stands up, smooth and controlled, and walks away before I can answer. I sit there with my heart hammering against my ribs and tell myself it's the altitude, the exertion, anything but him.
“Alright. Breaks over. Let’s get back to it.”
The group starts moving again. While I force myself to stand, to follow, to keep my eyes on the trail and not on the man who just warned me to stay away from him, acting as if he’s doing both of us a favor.
Already knowing how this ends.