Page 81 of Nothing But Air

Her eyes were bright. Suspiciously so. But she didn’t look away. “I don’t know if I can trust myself.”

“I know.” His voice gentled. “That’s why we’re climbing.”

He wiggled his fingers. “Marcus and Xander won’t burn dinner for at least a couple hours. Plenty of time.”

“Wow. You have a lot of faith in their cooking skills.”

“Freeze-dried meals are hard to mess up, so maybe we’ll be lucky.”

The ghost of a smile flickered across her face. “I don’t know. I heard Marcus scream when a lizard surprised him today. I am not sure he is ready to boil water yet.”

“Then we’d better hurry.” He wiggled his fingers again. “Come on, Garrison. Don’t make me beg. It’s bad for my rugged image.”

“Rugged.” She almost laughed. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

“I believe the official term is ‘ruggedly handsome.’ But I’ll accept ‘devastatingly attractive’ if you prefer.”

“How about ‘annoyingly persistent’?”

“I’ll take it.”

For a long moment, she didn’t move. The waterfall murmured beside them. Sunlight caught in her blonde hair, turning it white.

Then slowly, carefully, she reached up and took his hand.

Her grip was firm despite the tremor in her fingers. He pulled her to standing—ribs complaining but bearable—and didn’t let go until she was steady on her feet.

Their eyes held for a beat longer than necessary.

“This is crazy,” she muttered.

“Yeah.” He started back toward camp, glancing over his shoulder to make sure she was following. “But the best things usually are.”

“Did you practice that line?”

“Came up with it on the spot, actually. Pretty good, right?”

“It was okay.”

He grinned. “I’ll take it.”

The canyon walls glowed gold in the late-afternoon sun. Somewhere ahead, there was a climb waiting. Nothing fancy. Nothing dangerous. Just stone and movement and the chance for Eden to remember what her hands already knew.

The gold could wait another day.

This couldn’t.

This had to be the worst decision ever.

Eden’s hands trembled as she clipped the carabiner to her harness. The metal was cold against her palms—foreign, untrustworthy—despite years of muscle memory that should have made the motion automatic.

She could do this. She’d done it a thousand times before.

Except she couldn’t.

Because the last time she’d trusted her judgment on rock, Teague had fallen and nearly died.

The route rose fifty feet from the campsite—a moderate climb, maybe 5.7 at most. The kind of thing she could have soloed in her sleep a couple years ago. The stone face caught the evening light, turning the stone orange, and she could see the holds clearly. Good edges. Positive features. Straightforward movement.