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Now I have an arm locked around her waist. The sensation is almost unbearable. She drives her elbow backward, catching me near the ribs.

Pain flares through my side. I tighten my hold.

“Samuel Colter!” She kicks hard enough that her boot nearly connects with my knee. “Put me down right now!”

People stare. A mother pulls her children out of our path. An older man takes out his phone. Someone shouts that they’re calling the police.

Good.

The two men will hesitate with this many eyes on us.

I carry Sophie faster.

“Help!” she screams. “Somebody help me!”

Every word should shame me. Instead, a primitive part of me takes vicious satisfaction in having her in my arms. Mine to carry. Mine to protect. Mine, even if only for the seconds it takes to reach my truck.

I hate myself for it. I wish she wasn’t terrified. I wish her arms were wrapped around my neck instead of shoving at my chest. I wish she were pressing closer because she wanted me, not because I’ve trapped her against me.

Most of all, I wish this moment belonged to us in some other life.

One where I’m not her father’s closest friend. One where the years between us don’t matter. One where she looks at me and feels even a fraction of what I feel every time I see her.

“Samuel, please.” Her voice cracks. “You’re scaring me.”

The plea cuts deeper than the elbow to my ribs.

“I’m sorry,” I manage.

The words come out rough from disuse.

She freezes for half a heartbeat.

Then she starts fighting harder.

“You’re sorry?” Her fist strikes my shoulder. “Put me down!”

I reach the truck. The doors are unlocked. Engine running. I’d planned that much before stepping out. I jerk open the passenger door and set her inside.

For one second, I’m standing between her knees. Her hands press against my chest. Her breath comes fast, lips parted, eyes wide with fury and fear. My body recognizes the position before my conscience can stop it. She is close enough to kiss. Close enough that I can feel the heat of her palms through my flannel. Close enough that I smell apples and cinnamon clinging to her sweater.

My gaze drops to her mouth—my mistake. Every feeling I buried in the mountains claws its way back to the surface.

Three years of isolation. Three years of chopping wood until my hands blistered, hiking until my legs gave out, and lying awake in a cold cabin wishing for something I had no right to want. She looks at me, and something flickers behind her fear. Recognition, maybe. Confusion. Her breath catches.

Then she slaps me. My head snaps to the side. That brings me back.

“Move over.”

“No.”

“Sophie.”

“Don’t Sophie me.” She tries to slide around me. “You disappeared for three years, and now you show up and drag me across a parking lot?”

Her knee rises sharply. I turn just in time to save myself from the worst of it, but she catches my thigh. I grunt.

“I’m not going anywhere with you.”