Page 27 of Someone To Claim
“Yet. The day is still young.” Feeling inexplicably exposed, I cross my arms over my chest. “But this is my adventure. I make the rules.”
He nods, solemn as a man being sworn in on the witness stand. “Of course.”
“First rule is you make breakfast.”
The smile expands, and I dig my nails into the soft flesh of my palms to keep from swooning.
“Fair enough.”
I sniff. “You’re agreeable.”
“When it suits me.”
The words are spoken casually, but his eyes stay pinned to mine and…damn, where’s a bear when a girl needs one? Heat climbs my neck toward my face, and I take a step back before the blush gives me away.
“I need to pack up.”
“I’ll work on breakfast.”
I duck into the tent and try to think about what it will mean to have a companion on the trail—just the two of us together for hours. This isn’t what I planned, but it won’t change what I’m here to do. I won’t let it.
I’m going to find Kristen Quinn and hug her and tell her that her words were a light when the world felt dark. And the man making breakfast ten feet away doesn’t change that. Jensen Grant doesn’t change anything. If only I could quiet the voice in my head trying to convince me it changes everything.
10
JENSEN
We’ve been hikingfor three hours. My lungs burn courtesy of the thin mountain air, and my shoulders ache from carrying the pack, and that’s without a tent adding extra weight. I’m also one hundred percent certain my feet will never be the same. I bet money my blisters have developed blisters of their own by now.
Don’t get me wrong. It might not be the most fun I’ve ever had, but I’m not complaining. And I wouldn’t trade being here for a month of Sundays with my feet propped on pillows and a cold beer in my hand.
Other than grunting out a begrudging thank you after I made breakfast this morning—protein oatmeal sprinkled with freeze-dried berries and slivered almonds—Sloane hasn’t spoken more than a few words to me. Mostly variations of stop humming because it’s annoying. However, she didn’t send me away, which is more than I expected.
Yeah, I busted ass up the trail and kept going after dark thanks to the headlamp I bought at a local sporting goods store in Billings, along with the rest of my hastily chosen gear. But she didn’t ask for this. And if she’d demanded I turn around and haul my ass rightback out of her life, I would have done it. Thank fucking God she let me stay. At least for now.
Molly and Avah gave me their numbers so I could send updates, but I haven’t had cell service since mid-afternoon yesterday. I can also imagine Sloane’s reaction if I whipped out my phone and started texting her protective circle of book club buddies. I know she’s pissed they gave me any information about her route, but I’m forever in their debt. And if I’m being honest, I’m kind of jealous she has so many people who care about her.
I can count my real friends on one hand. One finger, actually—Ford Batterson, who I grew up with in Whisper Falls, where we spent summers raising hell and winters doing the same but with mittens. There’s my younger brother, I suppose, but Jamie and I haven’t spoken in years. He might want me in his life less than Sloane currently wants me in hers. And that’s saying something, because she’s doing a bang-up job of pretending I don’t exist.
My boot catches on a root snaking across the trail, and I stumble forward, barely catching myself before I go down. She turns to face me with a deep frown, hands on her hips in a remarkably accurate imitation of every elementary school teacher I ever had.
Her nylon shorts show off the toned legs I can still remember wrapped around my waist in that Nashville hotel room. The moisture-wicking, teal-blue T-shirt she’s wearing makes her eyes look impossibly bright, even shadowed by the brim of her hat that reads “I closed my book to be here” in white embroidered letters. For a guy who’s not much of a reader, I’m oddly enamored of the discovery that the mysterious woman I met in that bar is so bookish.
Maybe it shouldn’t come as a shock since I know she’s a writer, or at least a journaler. I’d love to get a peek inside that golden notebook. I keep a journal, too. It’s for song lyrics, mostly. A humiliating amount of them are about her.
“I’m fine,” I say, even though she didn’t ask, and take a step toward her.
“You’re not fine.” Her gaze drops to my boots, then travels back up my body in a way that makes me wonder if she has X-ray vision that enables her to see every ache and pain assaulting me at the moment. “I don’t want to think about what your feet look like at this point.”
I can’t hide my grimace. I’m not sure the bloody, blistered nubs at the end of my legs qualify as feet anymore, but I manage a smile anyway. It’s muscle memory at this point, a curated mask I’ve deployed a thousand times on stage or in a recording studio when the show needed to go on.
“It doesn’t matter. I’m not slowing you down.”
She rolls her eyes, just like she did at The Alcove that first night when I asked her to dance. No coordination she claimed, but once we were two-stepping along with the crowd, she loved every minute of it, her laughter lighting up the whole damn room. This could be fun, too, if she gave it a chance. And if my feet survive.
“Let’s stop for water and a snack.” Her fingers move to the buckle at her waist, and she slides the pack off her shoulders.
I shake my head, ready to protest. Convince her that I can keep going. I didn’t track her into the Montana wilderness to be the weak link dragging her down.
