“I know people,” she says in a smug tone that has a playful edge.
She’s talked to more of my friends, but which ones? Molly could have called the office, and once Willow found out she was the woman I’d met at the tea shop, she would have eagerly offered up any information Molly asked for. Like how I take my coffee and a helpfully detailed map and timetable for my Thursday morning hike routine. Hell, for all I know, there’s a scenario just like this in Willow’s favorite movie.
Then again, Molly said she was meeting Blue last night…but Blue doesn’t know about my hikes, at least not from me. Part of me wants to ask, but I don’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing I’m curious.
“Are you a morning person?” she asks as though it’s a communicable disease. “Is that why you’re here so early? Can’t you go hiking like a normal person, say on a Sunday afternoon?”
“No one invited you, Molly.”
I didn’t expect my statement to give her pause, I was merely pointing out the facts, and sure enough, it doesn’t stop her. She glances around. “So you actually walk this trail in the dark?”
“It’s not dark, and I like to see the sunrise. I take it you’re hiking too?”
She peers down the trail, then faces me. “Of course.”
But she doesn’t seem convinced it’s a good idea.
“How much experience do you have?” I ask in mock seriousness, my gaze dipping to those ridiculous shoes, which shouldn’t be cute but are. “Did you bring your rock-climbing equipment?”
Her brow shoots up. “Excuse me?” But a beat later she regains her composure and gives me the evil eye. “You don’t have any rock-climbing equipment.”
“Maybe I stash mine at the base of the cliff,” I say. “If you’re hiking, I guess I’ll see you at the top.” I walk past her, leaving her to follow. Or not.
“The top?” she asks in dismay, and I chuckle to myself. Does she really think I’m about to scale a cliff?
She follows, but then I never expected anything less. She’s not short, but her legs aren’t as long as mine, so she has to hurry to match my quick pace. The small rocks on the dirt path crunch under our feet.
“Do you always walk this fast?” she asks as she catches up.
“When I have a purpose.”
“And is that purpose to run away from me?”
I’m glad she’s behind me because I struggle to hide my grin. “Don’t be so full of yourself. I already told you I want to see the sunrise.”
“So you’re one of those people,” she says behind me.
“And what kind of person would that be?”
“You know. One with nature. Living off the land.” She pauses, then adds in a thoughtful tone, “Although I find it difficult to see you taking a yoga class.”
I’ve actually tried a yoga class at Blue’s art/yoga studio, but I keep that to myself.
“No comment?” she asks, reaching my side.
I give her a quick glance, then return my gaze to the trail. One of us needs to pay attention. It’s obvious she’s too busy watching me to look where she’s going.
“Is that on or off the record?” I ask in a dry tone.
“Okay. I deserve that. Off the record.”
“No comment.”
We reach a steeper part of the mountain, where the trail narrows, and I stay in front of her.
“Don’t be like that, Cal.”
“Like what?” I ask, unable to resist. I shouldn’t encourage her. This woman wants to ruin my life, and I’m bantering with her like we’re in an episode of Gilmore Girls. (Yes, I actually watched several episodes with Alice back in the beginning of our relationship.)
“Unfriendly.”
“You think I’m being unfriendly?” I ask with a laugh.
“Well, you are for Asheville.”
She has a point, kind of. I’ve lived in this area my whole life. Most people are friendly—almost too friendly—but there are a lot of newcomers from all around the country, and they’ve brought plenty of their own energy, good and bad.
“So I take it you’ve never been out here before?” I ask.
“No. I’m not much into…nature.”
I laugh. “I also take it you’re not a morning person since you were so taken aback that I like to hike at sunrise.”
She makes a sound of disgust. “If we were intended to see the sunrise, we wouldn’t sleep hours past it.”
Her answer tells me two things. One, she really wants this story from me—and to my disgust, I admire her determination—and two, this view is going to blow her away. I shouldn’t give a shit if she likes it or not, yet here I am. What does that say about me? I must be a masochist because part of me wants to rip off her thin T-shirt and see what she’s wearing underneath, even as she plots my destruction.
We walk in silence for a few moments, and I breathe in the fresh air, taking in the scent of the nature around me while birds sing their greeting to the day. The hint of pine on the breeze makes me long for my woodshop. I packed up most of the equipment and put it in storage when I sold the house and moved in with Dad. Sure, I still make things like islands and entry tables for clients, but they’re purely functional pieces, nothing like what I used to make. It helps ease the ache in my heart, but it’s not enough.
It is, however, all that I deserve.
“A penny for your thoughts,” Molly says, sounding breathless behind me.
“Only a penny?”
“Well, I did bring you a cup of coffee. Don’t get greedy.”
“So now it’s a bribe?” I sputter through a laugh. “And here I thought it was a peace offering. I wonder where I got that idea?”
“Okay,” she concedes. “But why can’t it be both?”
“I believe it’s in the coffee rule book. Rule number fourteen: a serving of coffee can only be used once as an offering.”
“I guess you would know. You like making rules.”
She says it in a teasing tone, but it hits a raw nerve. This woman is playing a game with me, and no matter how attracted I am to her, I need to remember that.
I clamp my mouth shut, and as soon as the trail widens a few feet, she rushes up next to me. “Sorry. I went too far. Sometimes I can’t help myself.”
“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” I say more unkindly than I intended. “To get me to spill everything I know about the Bad Luck Club.”
“Would that be so bad?” she pleads.
For a brief moment, I wonder if I should give her what she wants, just open up and tell her everything. For all her stalking, she seems like a halfway decent person. Maybe she really does want to prove to the world that Augusta is a fraud. Hell, Dad’s so desperate to right everything Augusta got dead wrong that he would spill his guts to Molly and thank her for it. If I give him the go-ahead. But I can’t bring myself to do it. The creation of the club is tied to Alice’s death and the secrets she took to her grave. Only Augusta knows that I told Alice we were over the night she died. If I go public, and the press paints me as the poor widower who chose to take his grief and pour it into a project to help others, Augusta might come forward and let the world know our secrets.