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“But?” I whisper softly.

“That never happened because he died. His plane disappeared, and then he was found dead in his truck. His heart almost exploded from the overdose.”

Harsh.

Every thought in my head vanishes save one.

This girl is trouble with a mammoth T.

I just wish like hell I could help her.

That thought’s going to get me in trouble, too, if I’m not careful, but I can’t help the way my chest aches for the quiet sorrow in her voice.

It’s that mellow, desperate pain that’s been etched deep over time, starting off as a little scratch until the next thing you know it’s a jagged groove.

Years later, it’s worn a hole right through you like caustic acid.

Felicity’s got too many holes in her soul.

I gotta remind myself it’s not my job to fill them.

Still, I can at least try offering her some comfort, some answers.

I settle down on the stool next to her, lightly resting my hand between her shoulder blades. “So is that what this is about? Finding out what really happened to him, and if his plane’s at the bottom of the lake?”

She hesitates before nodding, and this time it’s less that her eyes are downcast and more that she’s avoiding mine.

“Yeah,” she whispers.

Okay.

Damn.

She’s obviously not telling me the whole truth, but she doesn’t owe me that either.

Not yet.

“Okay,” I say. “I’ll let Holt know I need to borrow our biggest crane for the weekend, plus the flatbed to transport it.”

“What?” Felicity’s head flies up so fast her hair snaps across her face, and she stares at me with her mouth open. “Alaska, no! I can’t drag you or Holt into this! He’ll...God. No way. I can’t do that to you guys.”

“Holt doesn’t have to know what it’s really for.” I smirk. “Look, he’s got some weird ideas about what guys in Alaska do for fun. I could tell him I need the crane for deepwater fishing or a log tossing competition, and he’d believe it and just tell me to bring it back without a scratch. Besides, this is still hypothetical, right? So now let’s say it’s imaginary. It’s an imaginary crane, we’re dragging it to an imaginary lake, and as far as anyone’s concerned—this imaginary brainstorming never happened.” My smirk widens into a grin.

“Alaska...” She looks at me, her eyes shining like stars. “I could hug you. Imaginary hug, I mean.”

What the hell? I lean in, giving her a quick, joking squeeze.

It’s almost painful tearing myself away when I want to linger.

Her nose scrunches as my smile catches her. I watch those heart-shaped lips lose their tug-of-war and quirk up at the corners.

Cute as hell.

I’ve just got one question left.

“How do you feel about going on an imaginary camping trip this weekend, Miss Felicity?”

I can’t believe I actually talked her into it.

I also can’t believe Holt let me borrow a crane this frigging large and this expensive without an interrogation. The bossman just reminded me to strap it down tight to the flatbed, considering the hills around here are pretty steep, the roads are wicked twisty, and this crane weighs a metric ass-ton.

I’ve got a few thousand yards of steel cabling, too, plus enough camping supplies to let us bunker down for a few days if needed, depending on what we find at the bottom of that lake.

And hey.

At least Eli got to go on his camping trip, even if he’s staying pretty local in the hills beyond Charming Inn. 'Roughing It Lite' with his new friend Zach and his parents, Leo and Clarissa. If anyone knows the wilderness around Heart’s Edge, it’s a dude like Leo who spent years living in it like a wild man.

They’ve promised to put my number on speed dial and call me if Eli gets so much as a splinter.

I have a feeling he’s not the one I’ll need to worry about.

Not when I’m heading north into the cool mountains with a girl who looks like she’s about to face a firing squad, rather than spend a relaxing weekend fishing for some trout, some bass, and maybe—if we’re lucky—her daddy’s old plane.

She’s bundled up in the passenger seat of the truck cab now.

Even if it’s comfortably warm and breezy in town, it’s gonna be chilly out by the lake. Her stylish leather coat with the Sherpa collar hugs her frame, padding her curves without hiding them.

She’s tucked herself into the corner of the cab, leaning against the door and resting her head against the window.

If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was asleep.

Only, her bright eyes are open, half lidded and looking pensively out the window, watching the trees roll by as miles and miles of road disappear in our rearview mirror.

It’s not hard to tell she’s feeling guilty for dragging me into this and for relying on me to wheel and deal for equipment.

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