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I look across the street and find where we’re supposed to go. “There!” I point.
Blake turns. “A dentist studio?” She swats her forehead. “Crown replacement, oh my gosh.”
Since there are no cars, we jaywalk across and, trying not to look like thieves, crawl on the ground to search under the porch steps.
We find a small, ancient wooden and leather trunk.
Blake sits on her heels, brushing a few specks of dirt off the trunk. “You think Westwood had these specially made?”
I shrug. “Let’s go open it somewhere else.”
We find a bench and sit in the sunlight.
“You want to open it?” Blake asks with an excited smile.
“No, you go ahead.”
“I’m surprised we didn’t have to search for a special key or something,” she says as she undoes the clasps and then lets out a strangled curse.
“What is it?”
She hands me another ancient-looking piece of parchment. “A map.”
We bend our heads close together over the chart. The typography has been embellished with mystic-looking landmarks, but it basically says we have to follow a hiking trail.
I stand up and offer Blake a hand. “Shall we see what treasures lie at the end of the road?”
She beams at me, taking my hand. “In for a penny…”
I pull her up and for a moment we are almost chest to chest. Her pupils expand, and she takes a shaky breath, but then she steps back.
Blake clears her throat. “I just hope it’s not some kind of corporate shocker like Westwood wants all of us to join a let’s-get-ready-for-the-end-of-the-world cult or something.”
I smirk at her wild imagination. “I highly doubt it.”
I know it’s not.
34
BLAKE
The first half of the journey is on a concrete road leading uphill. The incline is not super steep, but still hilly enough that we have little breath left to talk. Things get worse when we enter the woods and the terrain becomes less smooth.
We walk for over an hour into the forest on a dirt path with trees and bushes on both sides, the only sound being our slow footsteps and our breathing. As the sun reaches its zenith, I’m wishing I’d brought more to drink.
Finally, we reach a clearing with a modern-rustic cottage sitting in its center.
I take in the renovated mountain cottage, the cozy blanket spread on the grass in front of the house with two picnic baskets on top of it, and turn toward MGM, seething.
“This isn’t the conference scavenger hunt, is it?”
His smile is shamelessly wide. “Nope. Think of it as a scavenger first date.”
“I never agreed to go on a date with you.”
“Hence the need for a little stealth.”
“I should turn on my heel and go right back to the resort.”
