Chapter One
Juniper
The sound of rushing water greets me as I step off the beaten path and into the clearing by the Phantom River. The scent of pine and wet earth hangs thick in the air, mingling with the faint tang of gasoline and engine grease. My boots crunch on the gravel, a far cry from the red carpets and city streets I usually traverse.
And then I see him.
A towering figure, broad shoulders straining the fabric of his dark t-shirt as he maneuvers a hose the size of my arm into the truck’s water tank. He’s soaked—water dripping from his hair, clinging to his neck, and trailing down his forearms. The scene screams rugged wilderness, and for a split second, I forget why I’m here. This man looks like he’s stepped out of a firefighter’s calendar and I can’t seem to drag my eyes away. This must be Flint Warner.
The rugged firefighter pauses, biceps flexing as he twists the valve on the hose with slow precision. Then I remember. My camera slung over my shoulder, my mission to document forest conservation, and the annoying fact that my cousin Barron sentword ahead to his friend to “look after” me like I’m some clueless damsel who can’t hold her own.
I clear my throat, stepping forward. “Excuse me?”
Flint turns, and before I can duck, the spray from the hose arcs through the air, soaking me from head to toe.
My gasp is more shock than anger as icy water drenches my hair, my clothes sticking to my skin in an instant. “Seriously?”
“Shit,” he mutters, dropping the hose and straightening to his full, intimidating height. “Didn’t see you there.”
His voice is gravel and smoke, deep and unapologetic.
I’m too wet and too annoyed to appreciate it fully. I spread my arms, water dripping from my sleeves. “Do you make it a habit to hose down unsuspecting women, or am I just lucky?”
A slow smirk pulls at his lips, revealing the barest hint of a dimple. Damn him for that. “Depends. Pretty ladies who sneak up on me when I’m working are fair game.”
I gape at him, torn between exasperation and an unwilling urge to laugh. “Pretty? You mean soaked, disheveled, and questioning all my life choices right now?”
His smirk widens. “I call it like I see it.”
I hate the way his words make my stomach flutter. This man is infuriating. “You must be Flint,” I snap, pulling my sopping hair into a loose knot to keep it off my neck. “Barron’s friend. The one who’s supposed to help me with my film, not drown me.”
The amusement drains from his face as soon as I mention Barron. His eyes narrow, sharp and assessing. “You’re Barron’s cousin?”
“Juniper Hayes,” I reply, sticking out a hand. “Filmmaker, conservationist, and apparently your new favorite target practice.”
He stares at my hand for a beat too long before shaking it. His grip is strong, rough, and sends a spark of awarenessthrough me. I snatch my hand back quickly, trying not to let him see the effect he has on me.
“Barron didn’t mention you were… filming.” The way he says the word makes it sound like I told him I’d be hunting unicorns.
I lift my chin. “Yes,filming. I’m here to document forest conservation efforts and the importance of preserving the natural environment.”
His jaw tightens. “Conservation, huh? You’re aware this isn’t a petting zoo? We manage these forests to keep them from burning the whole damn mountain down.”
“I’m aware,” I reply, matching his gruffness with my own fire. “And I’m here to make sure those efforts are sustainable and actually helping the ecosystem, not just bulldozing through it.”
For a second, Flint just stares at me, like he’s weighing the merits of arguing further. Then he shakes his head, muttering something about “city girls and their ideas,” before jerking his thumb toward the water truck. “Get in. I’ll take you back to the station.”
“Excuse me?” I cross my arms, incredulous. “I don’t even know you.”
“You’re Barron’s cousin. That’s all I need to know.” His tone leaves no room for debate. “And unless you plan on hiking all the way to the ranger station, you’re riding with me.”
I hate how reasonable he sounds. “Fine,” I mutter, trudging toward the truck.
The cab of the water truck smells like pine and smoke, a strangely comforting combination. Flint climbs in after me, his presence filling the small space. He starts the engine without a word, and the truck rumbles to life, jostling us as it bounces over the uneven dirt road.
I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. He’s all hard lines and quiet confidence, his hands gripping the wheel with ease. There’s a scar along his left forearm, a pale line against his sun-bronzed skin. I wonder what story it holds before shaking the thought away.
“So,” I venture, breaking the silence. “Do you always make such a great first impression, or is this a special occasion?”
