Total pages in book: 17
Estimated words: 16116 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 81(@200wpm)___ 64(@250wpm)___ 54(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 16116 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 81(@200wpm)___ 64(@250wpm)___ 54(@300wpm)
He shrugs, which I take as assent. I snap a few shots—the play of firelight on wood, his hands working the knife, the steam rising from the pot. When I review them on the small screen, I'm struck by the beauty of simplicity captured.
Wow.
"Hey, you're good." His voice startles me. He's looking over my shoulder at the screen.
"Thanks. It's the only thing I actually love doing." The words tumble out before I can stop them.
He returns to the stove, stirring whatever smells so amazing. "What do you do when you're not getting lost in my mountains?"
"Your mountains?" I can't help smiling. "Wow. I had no idea this was private property. I'm so sorry for trespassing, Monsieur Thorne Range."
The corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but close. "Answer the question."
"I'm finishing my senior year. Business administration." Even though he can't see, I roll my eyes. "Very fun and interesting course."
"You sound thrilled."
"My parents' choice, not mine." I set the camera down, suddenly restless. "The Carter family business plan—Archie and Meredith decided my future before I was born. Dad's a corporate lawyer, Mom's in finance. They expect me to follow the same path."
"And what does Emma want?"
The question is so simple, yet no one ever asks it, especially my parents. "This." I lift my camera. "Nature photography. Being out here, capturing places and animals most people never see. It's the only time my brain shuts up, you know? When I'm looking through the lens, everything else falls away."
He nods, like he understands completely.
"I was supposed to be researching law schools today. Instead, I drove three hours to hike and take photos." I laugh without humor. "Rebels in sensible shoes, that's me."
"Sensible shoes wouldn't have gotten you lost."
"Harsh but fair."
Wyatt takes off the apron and serves dinner—some kind of stew with fresh bread. My mouth waters. See, I was brought up to be a proper lady, eating daintily and slowly, no rushing or acting like I was starved.
Today, I do nothing of the sort. Instead, I devour what's on my bowl, tearing the bread and moaning at every bite. It's shockingly good. Either that or I'm just extremely hungry.
"This is amazing," I say between bites.
"Basic survival skill. Cooking."
"Not where I come from. My dad can barely make toast."
"Different world."
"You can say that again." I set down my spoon, finally stopping a moment to swallow. "You said you've been here for five years. Where were you before that?"
A shadow crosses his face. "Office work. Been there, done that with the corporate bullshit. Decided it wasn't worth my soul."
I stare at him, feeling like he's just read pages of my diary, and jab a finger at him. "Exactly. That's exactly it. Like you're selling pieces of yourself every day until there's nothing left. That's not the life I want. I mean, yes, you get a steady paycheck, but at what cost?"
His eyes meet mine across the table, and something passes between us—recognition, understanding. For a moment, I forget he's a stranger. Forget that twelve hours ago, I was in my dorm room dreading another family dinner where they'd quiz me about my career options.
Words pour out of me then, like a dam breaking. About the panic attacks that started junior year. How my parents dismiss photography as a "nice hobby" but not a real career. The mounting pressure as graduation approaches. How I've been sabotaging my law school applications because I can't bear the thought of that life.
He listens without interrupting, without offering platitudes or solutions.
When I finally run out of words, I'm mortified at myself. Have I been deprived of company for so long?
I slap both hands to my mouth and groan. "God, I'm sorry. You didn't ask for my life story."
"It's fine." He stands, gathering our empty bowls. "You looked like you needed it."
After dinner, he builds up the fire while I help wash dishes. The domesticity of it feels surreal. I feel like I've stepped into another dimension, where my life is actually peaceful.
"I'll get you some new blankets for the bed." He disappears into what must be the bedroom, returning with an armful of quilts. "Nights get cold."
"I really don't feel right taking your bed—"
"Emma." My name in his deep voice stops me short. When did my name sound that good spoken aloud? "Take the bed."
"If you insist."
The bedroom is small but, like everything else, meticulously crafted. The bed frame is handmade, the mattress surprisingly comfortable.
I change into the t-shirt he left out for me, drowning in fabric meant for his frame, and slide between the quilts, my exhausted body melting into the mattress.
My mind, however, refuses to quiet. I keep seeing his hands, imagining them on my skin. The way his shirt stretched across broad shoulders. How his beard might feel against my neck. He looks like someone who'll be rough in bed. Is he, actually?