Paisley
Yesterday, every movement of the water made my heart race. Every shift of the current sent panic through my chest. I spent the entire morning convinced the kayak was one wrong paddle stroke away from flipping me into disaster.
Now I’m floating beside Dean with the sun warming my shoulders and the steady rush of the Etowah carrying me forward.
I’m still not graceful. I doubt I ever will be. But I’m better.
The proof is sitting beside me in a green kayak, wearing a ridiculous amount of confidence and a grin that makes it impossible not to smile back.
“Are you staring at me?” Dean asks.
I blink and realize I’ve been watching him instead of paying attention to where I’m paddling.
“No.”
His eyebrow lifts.
“I don’t think I believe you.”
“I was looking at the river.”
“Uh-huh,” he says, clearly unconvinced.
“I was.”
“You were looking directly at me.”
I open my mouth to argue, but nothing comes out because he’s right. I don’t even have a good excuse anymore.
The man is distracting.
Everything about him feels designed to make concentrating difficult. The sun has dried his hair into messy waves that are boyishly charming, and his shirt is damp around the collar from the spray of the river. His skin is a golden tan from hours outside, and his shoulders are relaxed as he guides his kayak effortlessly through the water.
Dean belongs here.
The river doesn’t scare him. The mountains don’t intimidate him. Even the wilderness that had me convinced I was about to become a missing person statistic seems to bend to his will.
Alone in the woods, he made me feel completely safe. Once he fished me out of the Etowah, I wasn’t scared anymore.
I trail my fingers through the water beside my kayak.
A week ago, I would have never imagined wanting this. Not the kayaking. Definitely not the sleeping outside or getting stranded in the woods with a near stranger.
But sitting in a bright pink kayak, listening to the river and watching the mountains stretch endlessly around us, I understand why people fall in love with places like this.
“Are we getting close?” I ask.
The question comes out softer than I intend.
Dean glances over at me, dark eyes glinting in the summer sun.
“To the pickup spot?”
I nod and he smiles.
“It won’t be much longer,” he promises. “No more rustic fish dinners for us.”
My stomach twists.
