Page 34 of Find My Way Down to You

“You startled me,” he says instead.

I snort. “I bet you’re a ton of fun at surprise parties.”

“We do not—”

“Forget it.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. When I finally look at him, Cary’s expression is as smooth as the river’s surface. “Are you sure you can do this?”

“August, I will not let any harm come to you.”

There it is again. The twist in my belly. Sureness moving through my blood despite everything that’s happening.

Ibelievehim.

“Okay,” I whisper, then take his hand. His skin is cooler than Milos’s was. Not as silky, but still oddly nice. His grip is as confident as it is careful. “How do we do this?”

He motions toward the water.

We move slowly. At the shoreline, Cary turns to face me. He steps backward but never trips. His eyes stay with mine. They steady me as the cool water licks at my ankles, then my shins.

The stream rocks gently.

I chew on my lip. “How far do we need to go?”

Cary continues to hold my gaze. “Not too far.”

“Okay,” I repeat, suddenly warm. Not from his attentive stare. Or his fingers tightening around mine. But from the river’s song. A soothing serenade that hushes the pounding of my heart.

“You need to—” Cary pauses. Cautiously, he pulls on my arm. “Be closer to me.”

I swallow, wary. “How much closer?”

His mouth pinches. “Much.”

We’re chest-deep in the water. Cary searches my face for permission. My breath comes too fast as I nod.

After a long, awkward moment, our bodies are pressed together. My hands on his shoulders. His arms around my back. The water is forced to move around us rather than between.

He smells sweet. Not like the garden’s flowers. Something else. Fruit, maybe. A smell I know but can’t name currently with his fingers on the small of my spine.

“Are you okay?”

The question surprises me. So does the gentleness in his voice. I stare at the single curl resting against his forehead, then ask, “What now?”

“Wait.”

“For?”

The calm in his eyes is the only response I get.

I close my own. Concentrate on anything but him. Like the notes of earthy musk hanging on the breeze. From the cypress tree I saw near the shore. Absently, I hum an accompanying melody to the river’s song, the music gathering in me in a way I’ve avoided for too long.

A whisper breaks through. “Breathe.”

I do.

“Again,” Cary instructs.

My next inhale is deeper, measured. The ache of fear flees my chest. His arms go tighter around me.