Chapter Twenty #2
She pivoted the camera around and lifted it up, getting herself in frame. Her eyes danced. “What do you think, internet? Do you want to hear about the Campsite Rule—whatever that is—from him?”
He waited a beat before asking, “What on earth are you even doing?”
“First rule of becoming famous on social media is engagement, engagement, engagement. Likes, comments, reactions. But especially comments.”
“Again, I have absolutely zero interest in becoming famous on social media.”
She flapped a hand in his general direction. “I know, I know. But it’s part of getting a message out. Now.” She directed her camera at him again. “Explain the Campsite Rule to me like I’m the most ignorant, uneducated person you’ve ever met.”
“Emma, you are literally the most brilliant person I’ve ever met.”
An adorable flush rose to her cheeks. “Then just pretend I’m not here.”
“Impossible.” Ignoring her camerawoman antics, he walked right up to her and kissed her on the mouth. It was brief but delicious.
When he pulled away, she looked appropriately dazed. But she blinked and shook it off. “For real, though,” she implored him.
He let out a deep breath. He was still skeptical, but she was weirdly invested in this, and it was making him get invested, too.
“Okay, fine.” Scanning a little ways ahead on the trail, he spotted a good-looking tree with an empty sports drink bottle crushed into the ground beside it.
Perfect—infuriating, but perfect. “Over there.”
She followed him to the tree, where he squatted down.
Once she nodded to give him the go-ahead, he put on his grumpy voice again.
And then he told her—and maybe the entire internet—about how the rule of camping was that you left your campsite in as good a condition as or better than you found it.
Leave no trace—and definitely leave no gross, dirty trash.
As he spoke, he tried not to think too much about how weird this was. Instead of pretending she wasn’t there, he focused exclusively on Emma. On the way she was looking at him through the screen of her phone. On how delighted she seemed.
And on how natural it felt to trust her.
The hardest part about being Hunter’s cameraperson was trying to stay quiet while she was recording.
His stern, frighteningly competent and yet somehow kind-eyed delivery shouldn’t work, but it did.
His dry sense of humor as he lectured imaginary people on cleaning up after themselves, watching out for wildlife, following trail markers, and avoiding poison ivy had her alternately enraptured and in stitches.
The handful of times he got serious and pointed out actual highlights of the preserve were just as effective.
The camera loved him, too. He might shy away from the limelight in real life, but with his gorgeous features and tousled hair and rugged beard, he just about glowed in it.
There was also the way his flannel shirt hugged his broad shoulders and muscular biceps.
The exposed, tanned skin of his forearms and the hint of a dip at his collarbone, barely peeking out from under his shirt.
The view from behind wasn’t bad, either. As much as she wanted to, she resisted the urge to zoom in on his tight rear end in those jeans, choosing instead to keep his entire body in frame.
They were nearly to the top of the ridge he wanted to show her, and he was demonstrating how to safely make your way up a steeper stretch of the trail.
She followed after him, keeping up in an attempt to maintain decent audio.
If they did this again, she’d have to figure out how to mic him, but for now, she just had to hope that the sound quality would be okay.
“Now, this is the kind of place where a hiking pole can really come in handy,” he said, “but don’t overthink it. A good stick’ll do the job. Just don’t swing on any damn trees.”
He patted the smooth, well-worn trunk of an old tree that somehow sprang from the middle of the rocky incline.
Clearly, more than a few people had used it as a handhold over the years.
He lunged in the other direction to grab a big fallen branch from the ground and used it to help steady himself as he took the last few craggy steps to the top at a run.
He didn’t really need the branch, but she appreciated his offering that kind of tip to folks who weren’t in as good shape as he was. Which was pretty much everybody.
Herself included. He’d fashioned her a walking stick out of another, smoother branch earlier in their hike, and it was a lifeline.
“Here,” he offered, heading back down the rocky slope like it was nothing to lend her his hand.
“Thanks.” Tucking her makeshift hiking pole under her arm, she clung tightly to her phone with one hand while reaching up to grab his palm with the other.
With his help, she scrabbled up the steep incline.
Arriving safely at the top, she let out a few panting breaths.
“I’ll have you know, you’re way better than either a stick or a hiking pole. ”
He laughed, giving her hand a squeeze before letting go. “Glad to be of service.”
Even with that nasty stretch behind them, the next bit of trail was awfully rocky. Following along after him, and using her branch again to help her keep her balance, she looked down at her phone to stop the recording.
But in her brief moment of distraction, looking at the screen, she stepped on a rock that jutted out at a funny angle.
All at once, the rock slipped out from under her.
She leaned into her walking stick and almost caught herself, but it was too late.
She fell to the side, her ankle crumpling with a searing jolt of pain, and she cried out.
The hard ground rushed up to meet her. She landed hard on her ass, her phone clattering out of her hand, but she couldn’t bring herself to care.
“I’m all right,” she said, automatically, even though she definitely, definitely was not.
“What happened?” Hunter was right there beside her in an instant, all his good humor of a second ago gone.
“Just lost my footing, sorry. My ankle—” She hissed as she tried to move it.
“Don’t be sorry,” he ordered, and even through the haze of pain, the bossiness to his tone did something to her insides.
She’d thought he was frighteningly competent a few minutes ago, but that was nothing to the all-business way he zeroed in on her stupid ankle. He pushed up her pant leg, shockingly gentle despite his bulk and strength.
Self-consciousness brought a hot flush to her face, and she made a half-hearted effort at brushing him away. “It’s fine. I just need a minute.”
“Bullshit.” He probed the area, and yeah, it was decidedly not fine. Every touch had her wincing, even though she tried to hide how much it hurt. “Can you move it?”
“Maybe?”
She tried again, and oh, damn, that was not good.
“Okay, no problem.” He took off his pack and reached into it for an honest-to-God first-aid kit.
“Such a Boy Scout.”
“Always be prepared.” He said it lightly, but he was still one hundred percent focused. Within seconds of rummaging through the kit, he pulled out an ice pack. He cracked it and gave it a shake before applying it to her skin.
The sudden cold brought her back to herself—biting but not as bracing as pure ice. The pain ebbed, and she let out a rough breath.
“There you go.” A little bit of the tightness in his jaw faded. Still holding the pack to her leg, he sat down on the ground. “It’s probably just sprained, but we’ll have to get it checked out.”
“I can take myself to the clinic in town after we’re done.”
He boggled. “I’m taking you. Obviously.”
“You really don’t have to. And my car—”
“We’ll deal with it. I’ll talk to Alix and George and make sure it doesn’t get towed or anything.”
“But—”
The stern look he fixed her with shut her up. Clearly, he wasn’t accepting any arguments about this, and really, she didn’t want to fight him on it anyway. The shock was wearing off, leaving her with a dull pain and a pit of shame opening up in her gut.
God, this was so embarrassing. Why did she have to go and be a klutz and mess up their entire day?
“I’m really sorry,” she tried again.
But he wasn’t having that, either. “It happens. I’m the one who should be sorry.” Real remorse formed lines of regret between his brows. “Knew we shouldn’t have taken this path without proper gear.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“Then it’s not yours, either.” His tone was so stern, and he waited until she met his gaze before continuing. “You got me? I don’t want to hear any more apologies.”
She started to say she was sorry for saying sorry, but she clamped her jaw shut, narrowly managing to keep it in. He might have heard it anyway, because he finally cracked a smile.
Reaching into his pack again, he brought out a couple of granola bars and offered one to her. She accepted it and tore it open. Shouldering off her own bag, she grabbed her water bottle and took a swig.
It was only then that she caught sight of her phone.
Murmuring another quiet curse under her breath, she kicked it closer with her good leg.
Fortunately, the screen wasn’t cracked, but she was shocked to find it was still recording.
Good grief, that was going to be mortifying to look at later, but there was probably some good footage from the beginning of the clip, when she’d been filming him making his way up the incline.
As much as she just wanted to delete the whole thing right now, she left it be and blanked the screen.
In the meantime, Hunter was gazing off into the distance, chewing thoughtfully. “It’s still a little ways to the lookout. Guess we’ll have to come back some other time to see that.”
She hated that idea, but he was definitely right. She bit back the instinctive sorry that rose to her tongue again. “Yeah.”
“The real question, though”—he turned to look at her again, and then past her, down the incline—“is how we get you back down.”