21. Lucie
Snapdragons and roses were pressed between the pages of her favorite romance novels, journals, and sketchbooks. Lucie had hidden the shells she and Finn had collected earlier that morning. Bits and pieces of their time together were spread around her room like glitter.
Other mementos of their trip and dates were in her wardrobe, under the board in her floor, or others in the loose air duct—far from her father’s prying eyes.
Lucie sat at her makeshift vanity, brushing her hair with slow, thoughtful passes as she daydreamed about Finn her entire shift. Her father wasn’t there all morning, which was a relief, as she didn’t want him to spoil her mood.
Was it hard to keep her eyes open at work?
Yes. Was she still finding sand between her toes?
Yes. Had she died and gone to Heaven last night?
I don’t know—Do seagulls steal French fries at the state fair?
She’d never been to either place, but she’d seen movies, and yes—everything had been like a movie.
During her morning shift, Lucie found her hands instinctively going to her lips, thinking about their kiss.
It was better than anything she had dreamed about for her first kiss.
She’d thought about her first kiss since she was fifteen, thinking it would happen at prom, but on a beach with Finn?
It was a million times better. He’d kissed her as if she were worth a million precious moments.
She caught herself smiling at her reflection, cheeks warming, and promptly looked away.
After Finn had dropped her off, he’d said he would come back in a couple of days after he got caught up with work. But how was she supposed to wait that long? She didn’t even have a way to communicate with him to ask how his day was or his meeting went.
As she finished braiding her hair for the night.
A knock on her window broke her thoughts.
Her brush clattered onto the vanity, her heartbeat leaping.
Finn.
She bit her bottom lip.
He was there!
She could see it now: He couldn’t wait until those couple of days to see her; he must have been overcome with feelings, and he drove back here to kiss her goodnight.
She pinched her cheeks, patted her hair into place, and smoothed her sweatshirt and jeans, breathless as she crossed the room on bare feet toward the balcony.
Lucie swung the door open.
“I missed?—”
The words and smile she had for him died on her lips.
Finn stood there, his face pale, his shirt and hands stained with blood, one hand braced against the door, his other tattooed hand with a finger raised to his lips.
“Is your dad home?” he managed, his breath rough and ragged.
Lucie shook her head, her mind racing. “No.”
“Can I come in?” he asked as if he wasn’t bleeding on her balcony.
She paused.
“Yes,” she stammered as she pulled the robe around her tightly, as if to shield against the moment from hurting her.
He staggered forward, clutching his side, and collapsed onto his knees once he got into the room.
Lucie gasped, kneeling beside him. “What happened?”
“I was attacked,” he said, sucking in breaths between words.
She rushed to the other side of her room to get a cloth to stop the bleeding.
“What happened? Was it a bear?” she asked, kneeling before him with the cloth. But why would he come here if one did? Surely, the Rangers had paperwork for that and better supplies.
Finn managed a pained half-smile. “Yeah, something like that.” He sucked in a raspy, rattling breath. “Do you have a first aid kit?” Finn asked, wincing as he tried to shift his weight and crawl to her bed frame.
“Yes, yes, I have one,” Lucie said, scrambling to her feet. Her night just got a whole lot more interesting. She was daydreaming about kissing him when he was dying.
NO.
She stopped the word dying from latching onto her thoughts and freezing her. Finn was not dying on her watch.
She grabbed the tin box from under her bed. One she kept stocked for her “emergencies.” She tried not to think about the countless times she had bandaged her own wounds in secret or tended to gashes and scrapes her father had inflicted on her over the years.
“I’m going to need to take off your shirt to look at the problem.” She had only been able to drool over his abs for minuscule seconds before he put on his wetsuit earlier that day. It wasn’t long enough, but now—now she couldn’t even enjoy it.
Finn groaned softly as Lucie gently lifted his shirt, revealing a mess of bruised and bloodied skin.
Blood had started to dry like specks of paint around the wound.
She sucked in a breath, momentarily stunned by the sight of his strong, muscular torso.
Did he live at the gym? She didn’t know too many rangers, but none of them must have been that strong.
She gave his peck a quick tap to see if he was real.
Yep. Real.
Oof.
Her gaze shifted to the wound on him. It was a clean puncture, jagged, ripped flesh, but he was lucky.
Without a second thought, she put on gloves.
The wound was on his right side, just above the hip. Blood seeped out of the wound in slow, steady pulses rather than spraying. That was good. No major artery was breached.
Out of the box, she reached for clean gauze and pressed it gently against the area. The skin wasn’t shredded the way it would be by an animal bite or claws. She recognized the wound from the first-time tourists-turned-hunters in the area during her clinicals.
“Do you feel dizzy?” she asked. “Or nauseous?”
“I’m fine,” he wheezed. Her comforter behind him was slowly spreading red like an ink spot. Carefully, she leaned him forward and saw an exit hole.
The wound was unmistakable.
Her breath hitched.
It was a gunshot.
Finn winced, his eyes meeting hers. Understanding straightened his spine.
He had lied to her. And she’d believed him. What else had he lied to her about? All of a sudden, she didn’t feel safe being alone with him.
“You’re not really a Forest Ranger, are you?” she asked, and she hated the way that her voice trembled.
Finn’s amber eyes softened. He hesitated, then finally shook his head. His expression was caught between guilt and relief.
“No,” he admitted. “I’m not.”