But I knew better.
So did he.
And the day was only just beginning.
After an hour of driving, I turned down the road leading to the faraway lake with a sandy beach that few knew about.
Okay, many people were aware of it, but very few were willing to take the treacherous path that led there.
But I had faith in Ben.
I found the small clearing that served as a parking lot and eased Clarabelle into a cozy patch of flattened weeds between a boulder and a tree that had definitely seen better days. I turned the ignition off and grinned across the cab at him.
He stared at the brush ahead like it had personally insulted him.
“That’s the trail?”
“Trail is a strong word,” I said, grabbing my backpack and hopping out. “It’s more of a suggestion.”
Ben stepped out, squinted at the undergrowth, and took a long sip of his now-cold coffee. “You brought me into the woods to murder me.”
“Please,” I scoffed. “If I wanted to murder you, I wouldn’t have used my best cinnamon in the muffin. That’s hospitality, not homicide.”
He grunted and followed me around to the back of the truck as I handed him our items. I stuffed the sleeping bags in my backpack. “You’ll want water, snacks, and a healthy respect for wild terrain.”
He took a pack I gave him and slung it over one broad shoulder. “Do I get hazard credit for this?”
“You get scenic views and my sparkling personality.”
Ben eyed me. “The sparkling part, I believe. The personality is a little sharp-edged.”
I gave him a sweet smile. “It’s calleddepth.You should try it.”
He muttered something about sass and country girls as we made our way to the mouth of the trail. The trees leaned in, tall and thick, the light dappled between their branches as if playing a game. The ground sloped downward almost immediately, the dirt path winding like it couldn’t make up its mind.
Ben followed close behind me, our boots crunching twigs and leaves.
“So, how far is this alleged lake?”
“About two miles.”
“Is that two actual miles or two Fifi miles?”
I glanced back at him. “What’s the difference?”
“Fifi miles are like dog years. You say two, but it feels like twelve.”
“You wound me.”
“You tricked me.”
“You kissed me.”
That shut him up.
For exactly three seconds.
Then: “Fair. But I still think this trail hates me.”
