“I don’t know. I’m sure just for a few days, or…I don’t know, Mindy. I’m still in shock.”
She stares at me for several seconds. “You aren’t actually considering going with him, are you?”
“I mean…no? Yes?”
She reaches for my hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. “Roz, I like Barrett. I trust Barrett.”
“But?”
“But you’ve known him for two days.”
“I know.”
“Go home. Give yourself a week. If he’s really the man you think he is, he’ll still be there.”
The thought makes my chest ache. “And if he isn’t?”
“Then you’ll be very glad you got on your flight today.”
An hour later I’m back in my room, folding clothes into my suitcase. My flight confirmation sits open on my phone.
Home. Back to my apartment, bartending four nights a week while I figure out what I want my next adventure to be. Back to weekend hikes with friends, scrolling travel deals during slow afternoons, and wondering where I’ll go next.
It’s a good life. Maybe not the life I imagined I’d have at this age, but a good one. So why does every piece of it suddenly feel duller than spending one more day with Barrett?
Going with him would be reckless. He lives on a mountain. I barely know him. People don’t build relationships this way. People definitely don’t accept invitations to spontaneously go home with giant mountain men they met forty-eight hours ago.
My practical side lists every reason to board my flight exactly as planned. Another part of me keeps asking one simple question: Doesn’t a girl deserve one truly wild adventure?
I zip my suitcase closed.
I still don’t know the answer.
5
BARRETT
Ithought my cabin was exactly how I wanted it. Quiet. Secluded. Built for my own needs with my own hands. Every board where I wanted it, every tool hanging where it belonged, every morning the same as the one before it. I figured that meant I’d built a good life.
Turns out I didn’t know a damn thing.
Rosalyn is standing in my yard, her hair pulled into a high ponytail, wearing one of my flannel shirts even though it’s massively oversized on her. Back in the cabin, there’s a mug with lipstick on the kitchen counter. Her suitcase is sitting beside my bed. I heard her humming to herself while she unpacked this morning.
My cabin has never felt more like home.
“You keep staring at me,” she says, planting the axe upright in the chopping block.
“I’m supervising.”
“You’ve been supervising for ten minutes.”
“You’ve been pretending to chop wood for ten minutes.”
She plants both hands on her hips. “I’m trying.”
“I know.”
“And you’re enjoying this way too much.”
