I can’t risk it.
We’re quiet for the next five minutes. The path is becoming brighter, but Molly is falling farther behind, and to my chagrin, I find myself slowing down so she can catch up. I don’t want to give her any ammunition to paint me as an asshole. Or at least a bigger asshole than she already thinks I am.
At least, that’s what I tell myself when I stop and look back at her.
She’s about twenty feet behind me, leaning forward as she heads toward a small section of rock a couple of feet tall. I walk over, and as she starts to climb, I reach out my hand.
She halts and eyes me suspiciously. “Is this where you toss me off a cliff? I’ve listened to enough true crime podcasts to know the shit that goes down in the woods.”
I lift a brow. “If you thought I was going to toss you off a cliff, then why did you come out here with me?”
She gives me a saucy look. “I like to live dangerously.”
Something about the way she says it shoots a bolt of electricity straight to my dick, but I stubbornly ignore it and give her a wicked look. “So take my hand and see what happens.”
“I should have guessed you were into dares, or should I say challenges?” An unapologetic look fills her eyes as she holds my gaze.
“You really shouldn’t antagonize the man who is about to hold your life in his hands,” I say, but a smile slips through. “You’re liable to skin your elbow if you fall. Who knows? Maybe even sprain an ankle.”
“Then how would I write my exposé?” she asks, waggling her eyebrows.
“Now I’m intrigued. I’ve never seen anyone type with their ankles.” My hand is still extended. “Come on. We’re going to miss it.”
She takes my hand, her grip firm and sure, and when I haul her up, my hand is tingling. The sensation zips through my arm to my chest and keeps going. When she’s next to me, I get another whiff of honeysuckle, which must be from her shampoo or perfume, plus a scent I realize is all her. It must be stuffed full of pheromones because everything in me is screaming to pin this woman to a tree and do very wicked things.
The look she gives me tells me we’re on the same page.
She licks her lips, and I track the movement, imagining what else her tongue could do.
For a few moments, she stares back at me, then says, “You’re obsessed with seeing this sunrise.”
True, but for some reason, I really want her to see it too. “This is my hike. You’re just crashing it.”
She grins, then releases my hand. “Well, let’s get going then.”
It’s steeper as we approach the summit, and I turn back to make sure she’s still behind me and not faltering on the loose rock. When we reach the steps to the observation area, I let her go first so I can watch her reaction. Around the corner there’s a stone patio, and she gasps as she walks across it to the low rock wall surrounding the space.
The sunrise is everything I hoped it would be. Clouds hang low in the east, providing enough cover to let the rays of the sun paint the sky with pinks and deep purples. Beneath the sky stretch the peaks and valleys of the Blue Ridge Mountains. A thin river runs in the distance. Rhododendrons blossom all around us.
I move next to her and see she’s shivering in that stupid T-shirt and shorts. It’s windy up here and colder than on the trail. At least we were moving back there and protected by the trees and bushes. Now that we’ve stopped and are standing out in the open, we’re being pelted by gusts of cool wind. Without thinking, I press my side into hers and wrap my arm around her back, covering her upper arm with my hand. I can feel goose bumps under my fingers.
“What are you doing?” she asks, but it’s not adversarial. She’s challenging me to admit the truth.
You’re sexy as hell, and I want you more than I’ve wanted a woman in a very long time.
But while that’s true, it’s not the only reason I drew her close. She’s also cold, and I don’t like seeing her uncomfortable.
Somehow, admitting to that seems more dangerous.
“How many times do I have to tell you that I want to see the sunrise?” I ask, purposely sounding annoyed. “You’re freezing, so you’d be complaining in about three seconds. Now I get at least three more seconds to enjoy the view in peace.”
She looks up at me, and I can tell she has a smart-aleck response on the tip of her tongue, but she doesn’t speak.
Jesus, I want to kiss her, not to keep her quiet like I’ve insinuated, but to taste her lips, her tongue…
I want to taste every part of her.
From the look of surprise on her face, she must see my raw hunger. When she jerks her gaze back to the living work of art before us, I can’t decide whether I’m relieved or disappointed.
Her body leans into mine, though, and I feel the heat of her nestled against me.
“It’s beautiful,” she says.
This view never ceases to steal my breath and remind me that the world is bigger than my problems. But for the first time since I began making these hikes, I’m sharing it with someone other than a random fellow hiker encountered on the trail. I’m spending this moment that I usually reserve for myself with Molly, and the two of us are in our own little world.
I glance down at her, smiling to myself at the awe on her face. One of the many faces of Molly O’Shea, and I have the disadvantage of being attracted to every one of them.
Her face turns up to me, and our eyes lock. Her body shifts slightly so her chest is pressed to mine. Unless the fifty-degree wind had given her hypothermia and made her body numb, I’m sure she can feel the bulge in my sweatpants, but there’s no teasing comment on her lips. Only hunger in her eyes.
I’m about to say to hell with it and kiss her when I hear a woman call out in a shrill voice. “Harold! You need to slow down! You’re going to aggravate your hemorrhoids!”
A look I can’t decipher spreads over Molly’s face, and she takes a half step back as she begins to snicker.
“I used plenty of Preparation H before we left our Airbnb,” a man whom I presume to be Harold calls back, then whines, “We’re going to miss it, Margie!”
“That valley isn’t going anywhere,” the woman snaps, breathless, and they both round the corner to the platform. “See? It’s still there!”
But a thicker cloud has covered the sun, and while the sky is still painted, the colors aren’t as vivid as they were moments ago, and a feeling of satisfaction floods my veins. While the moment was interrupted, the most beautiful part was reserved for just the two of us.
That confirms it. As soon as I get off this mountain, I’m calling the park ranger station to form a search party, because obviously I’ve lost my mind.
Chapter Eleven
Molly
Rule #22: Sex has all kinds of complications. But it doesn’t need to! If you have bad luck romantically, separate the deed from the emotion. Try sleeping with a stranger to ease your mind. Yes, I mean it! Think radically. It works.
—Augusta Glower, Bad Luck Club
Nicole could have mentioned that Cal hikes through a freaking natural trellis of flowers that would make a Victorian lady jealous. They’re rhododendrons, which gave me an uncomfortable prick of memory, but it’s hard to resent them when they look like this, like they were sculpted just to create a pathway for the two of us. It was mostly dark on the way up, and my attention was fixed on him, because damn, he looks even better like this—decked out in sweats that leave nothing to the imagination and a shirt that clings to his every muscle—but that flower canopy is not the kind of thing a person can overlook. Nicole also neglected to mention that this hike leads to the most beautiful spot in the world, covered in wildflowers that splash the mountaintop with yellow and blue and purple.