That’s the thing about having the wrong hair tone. No matter how beautiful a face may be, a hair color too cool or too warm will be the first thing the eye lands on. It’s a shame she’s covering her natural copper red, if her roots are any indication. The splay of freckles on her fair skin also makes me hope she’s reapplying sun protection often.
“Okay, I just have to say, I’m loving your whole vibe.” She gestures with her open palm, miming a circle over me. “It’s practical but so fun!”
“Oh, thank you.” I definitely haven’t been expecting to hearthat compliment over the next few days, but I’m thrilled that my intentional color choices are having the desired effect. She scrunches her nose with a self-deprecating smile before prancing into a restroom stall. A minute later, the toilet flushes, and she’s gliding out, washing her hands a second time while her eyes scrutinize every inch of me. Suddenly, she pastes on a sunny grin. “I have to know where you got those pants!”
“These old things? I just had the mice in my cellar sew them for me,” I reply with a little too much faux enthusiasm. I’m not one to shy away from fashion talk, but something about her compliments feels a little forced.
Jerrica throws her head back, letting out a tinkling laugh. “Well, I love how all your colors are so…sunny.Everything matches, and your sweet, bubblegum vibe is just adorable.”
“Thanks.” I crack a smile, drying my hands on my pants and struggling to ignore my reflection and my catastrophic hair. “Good luck with the rest of your hike,” I tell her with a wave, and her eyes squish into little slits when she reinforces her smile.
I exit the restroom as two tourist helicopters hover noisily, disturbing the scenery before they continue. Golden cliffs once again glow among the fading light, like they, too, are exhaling after the unforgiving midday heat has finally surrendered. The shadows pooling at their bases hint at the dangers I don’t want to acknowledge.
My hand goes to my stomach with a slow exhale as I try to calm my nerves. This pairing with Jack isn’t a date, but the butterflies in my stomach didn’t get the memo. After everything that’s happened today, it’s easier to cling to these flutters than face the far more unsettling weight of lurking threats.
Jack paces off in the distance, his dark head bowed over his phone. His broad shoulders create a hero-worthy silhouette against the retreating sun.
I turn my head, doing a double take when Brandon disappears behind a tree.
When I look over my shoulder, Jack is still scowling at the device in his hands, so I decide to follow Brandon just far enough that Jack can still see me. There are like fifty people camping here, plenty of eyes and ears everywhere, so really, what’s the harm if I’m not chaperoned for a few minutes?
I’m an adult, I think to myself and roll my eyes.It makes sense to follow that lead.
As tired as I am, the chance to experience the scenery without Marigold on my back is also too tempting to ignore. I follow Brandon from a distance, hiding behind a bush while he snakes his way to one of the more secluded campsites. He pulls out a phone similar to Jack’s and sits on the picnic table, his hand raking through his hair as he stares at the device. I note two tents, but no sign of Chad.
It’s all a bit anticlimactic, but I suppose it’s good to know one’s possible enemies. This mystery Jack is trying to solve has barnacled itself to my list of pursuits. The canyon is offering me a morsel of purpose with the opportunity to be a part of something bigger than myself, and I’d be crazy not to take it.
A grimace pulls on my face when I realize I’ve ventured a little farther away than intended. Let’s hope Sir Grumpypants isn’t puffing steam from his ears by the time I get back.
The gurgling trickle of the creek whispers the promise of respite to my tired feet, and I can’t deny the invitation to dip my toes in the cool water. Flip flops probably aren’t the best footwear for walking downhill or stepping over slippery rocks, but it’ll only take a few seconds to refresh my dogs and pretend I’m a princess lounging beside a magical pool before turning back into a sweaty troll and hurrying back to our campsite.
A small path between two plots leads me down to the stream, and I frolic right in, not even removing my flip-flops.The shock of cold elicits a gasp, but I still wish I could dive right in. The water dances around my ankles, and I close my eyes, inhaling the smell of dust, sagebrush, and heat-baked rock.
This feels like a gold star and a pat on the head from the canyon—a littlewell donefor enduring its tests and making it this far.
Stomping echoes near, disrupting the peaceful whispers of the river. I turn to find Jack lumbering toward me. Two breaths later, I’m yanked back and hoisted over a shoulder with delicate control.
“Jack Benedict, you put me down right now!” I give his muscled shoulder blade a solid pat. “This is beneath you!”
“Stop wriggling,” he grunts, and I gasp when I feel a pinch on my upper thigh.
“I’ll have you know we’d be married in some cultures after what you just did, Mr. Fitzwilliam.”
“Still not my last name. Woman! Stop kicking,” he demands in a gravelly voice. The man is hiking uphill with me over his shoulder without even so much as a mildly exhausted huff or pause in his confident steps. And he’s still wearing a backpack with half his stuff inside, too.
For all I know, he’s planning my murder. There must be something very wrong with me, because I’m not even one bit upset about this predicament, although I would’ve liked to soak my feet a bit longer first. I can’t, however, let Jack know how much I’m enjoying this, because my new joy in life is pushing his buttons.
He continues walking, jostling me around over his shoulder as I muse once again about what season he might be. I’d give anything to get him into my stylist’s chair so I can drape him in color swatches and figure it out. I’m guessing he’s somewhere in the Autumn season.
I’m still lost in these delicious thoughts when I’m hoistedupright, sliding down his front like there’s glue between us. My cheeks heat as our eyes lock together, his hands gently curled around my waist.
“For someone who doesn’t like being touched, you sure are quick to manhandle me.” My voice comes out breathy.
He folds his arms, and his only response is a grunt, but those eyes are tracking every movement I make, no doubt ready to catch me if I decide to sprint.
I take a step back and dust my hands on my butt. Why? I have no idea. There’s no dirt on my butt. But I’m flustered by his nearness. His name is listed in the dictionary under the wordconundrum.
“Now what? Are you keeping me captive?”
