12. Scarlett
Scarlett
“ Y ou’re all idiots,” I said, hands on my hips, glaring at the four very large, very confident and completely lost men in front of me.
“We’re not lost,” Kane replied, squinting at the trees like they owed him directions.
“You said that thirty minutes ago.”
“And it was true then.”
Rhett spun in a slow circle. “I don’t even see a trail anymore.”
“That’s because we’re not on one,” I snapped.
Trace stood with his arms crossed, gaze hard on the tree line—as if staring long enough might redraw the path.
Alden leaned against a tree, sipping from a water bottle ignoring the fact that he’d just marched us into the middle of nowhere. “Relax. We’re not that far off.”
Hemingway let out a wheezy snort beside me collapsing in the shade, his little chest rising and falling dramatically. His tongue hung to one side, eyes bulging more than usual.
“Can he even breathe?” Rhett asked, crouching next to him. “Like genuinely? His face is… so flat.”
“He’s built like a loaf of bread,” Kane smirked. “But one that sounds like a broken air conditioner.”
“He’s perfect,” I said, scooping Hemingway into my arms. He was sweaty, snorty, and deeply offended by everything. “And he’s the only man here I trust to get us home.”
Rhett placed a dramatic hand over his chest. “Wounded.”
“Deserved,” Trace muttered.
I gave him a look. “Oh, so you can talk.”
He met my eyes, a smirk tugging at his mouth as he bent to grab a stick off the trail.
God, he was infuriating.
Kane picked up a stick drawing something obscene in the dirt. “I vote we just set up camp here. Start a new civilization. No rules. No pants.”
“I will literally kill you,” I muttered.
“You’ll miss me when I’m gone.”
“Unlikely.”
Alden had the decency to look sheepish. “Okay. I might’ve misread the last marker.”
“Do I look like I want to sleep in the woods with you four?” I asked.
“I mean,” Kane said, smirking. “There’s a tent big enough for all of us.”
“No.”
“Just putting it out there.”
I groaned and sat down on a rock, hugging Hemingway to my chest. His snoring made me feel slightly less murderous.
“You know,” Rhett said, dropping beside me. “As survival scenarios go, this one’s not so bad.”
“Except we’re gonna die.”
“I give us three hours before someone cries,” Kane joked.
“I give us three minutes before I stab someone with a pinecone.” I glared.
“I think I saw water ahead,” Trace added. “A ridge. It might be a spring.” I squinted past him, shielding my eyes with one hand. The trees opened just enough ahead to let the light spill through—hot, sharp, and golden.
“Oh look,” I said. “A man with a plan. How refreshing.”
He started walking, ignoring me.
I rolled my eyes, set Hemingway down, and stood. “Let’s go, pug.”
Hemingway wheezed but followed Trace with me.
The others trailed behind us, cracking jokes, throwing sticks, probably wondering how the hell we got here.
And under all of it—beneath the laughter, the heat, the jabs—I felt it.
The pull.
The tension that hadn’t broken.