For the first time in weeks, I wake up feeling rested. No nightmares. No tossing and turning. No rearranging pillows until I can't see straight. And in the morning light, there's no edge of panic, no prickling heat. Even though there's a part of me wondering how much better I'd feel if I'd convinced myself to make Beau stay, I smile as I stretch beneath the blankets.

I'd planned on holing myself up all weekend, but with the painful disquiet momentarily gone from my bones, there's a fragile sprout of anticipation taking its place. I have a truly free day. I almost want to laugh—both with incredulous joy and with self-annoyance—because I honestly don't know what to do with myself. I've already cleaned this apartment to its baseboards multiple times over the last week, pushed and pulled all my furniture until it best suited me, re-organized all my clothes and shoes... Normally, I'd find something from work to do, but after slogging through that box of discovery that had been left on my desk on a Friday afternoon, I don't want anything to do with Hutchinson and Hughes right now.

Although there's no painful pricking or too tight skin, there's still an energy coiled within me. I shift on the mattress, frowning at the ceiling. It's not unpleasant. Not exactly. It's gentle, humming instead of buzzing, but it's begging me to move. Like I need to do something.

Coffee, I decide. I'll start with coffee and take it from there.

As I pad through my quiet apartment, padding barefoot into the kitchen, I notice it from the corner of my eye. A muddy, competent looking truck parked across the street.

My breath catches in my throat.

Beau never left.

A part of my wants to sprint down to him. The part in control of my legs just stands there, blinking, stunned and soft and aching.

He slept in his truck.

For me.

The little taut string tied to my ribs vibrates happily, and it sparks something soft, maybe even reckless, next to my heart. I set the coffee maker to brew and quickly pad back to the bathroom so I can brush my teeth and fix my hair into something that doesn't look like a haystack. I don't feel the need to put on makeup, though I don't skip my skincare routine.

By the time I'm outside with two steaming mugs, the air has a wild, cracking edge to it. Early morning mist still clings to the street with a stubbornness that won't outlast the promise of sunshine. I cross the street slowly, careful not to spill.

Beau is in the driver's seat, reclining with an arm protecting his eyes from the morning light. Stubble shadows his jaw, his lashes are long against his cheek. His other hand is curled loosely on his thigh, twitching now and then like he's dreaming. A threat of guilt threatens to ruin the happy glow of energy in my chest. It hums: maybe I should have convinced him to stay. The couch would have been better than this, surely.

I knock lightly with the side of the mug against the window.

He jerks upright immediately, tension rippling through his shoulders. It must be the reflection of the bright morning, but his eyes flash gold—just for a split second—bright and unnatural. He blinks, disoriented, and then relaxes when he sees me.

"Good morning," I say softly as he rolls down the window.

"You didn't have to do that," he murmurs, taking the mug from me. Our fingers brush, sending a jolt of longing so fierce through my nerves that I almost refuse to hand the coffee over.

I clear my throat. "You didn't have to stay."

Over the mug, lips twisted into the smallest of smiles, Beau looks at me. "Yeah. I did."

Again, there's something unspoken in his words, some additional meaning that I just don't understand. Maybe it's just some mountain man, outdoorsy chivalry, but it's ultimately just so Beau that it makes me want to curl up into him.

He frowns as he sips, but then gives me a questioning raise of his eyebrow.

"How'd you know I like cinnamon?"

"I smelled it back at your place." I blush. "I guessed."

Beau's grin widens. There's a flicker of something supremely satisfied, incredibly male, in his gray eyes that makes me automatically want to take him down a notch.

"Don't get smug," I say. "It's just coffee."

His eyes crinkle. "I'm already smug."

He takes another drink with that silly smile. It makes me want to kiss the corner of his mouth, that wink of his dimple. I feel light in a way I haven't felt since my mom died.

"What are we doing today?" He asks easily, as if we're not having this conversation in the middle of the road.

I shrug, sipping my own coffee. If he can play it cool, so can I. Or at least I can try. The easy assumption that he wants to spend the day with me makes me feel like a high schooler doodling hearts on her notebook. It's a foreign feeling for me, but the giddiness is a little addictive, a little too easy to lean into.

"You tell me," I answer, matching his casual tone. I don't think I do a great job of hiding my building excitement, because his stormy eyes heat into quicksilver.

Beau laughs, and it does something to my insides. He shakes his head, like he loves this stupid game we're playing as much as I do.

"Alright, then. I know you have a couple eggs in your fridge. Let's eat, then I'm kidnapping you for the day."

After scrambled eggs and toast and coffee, we plan to drive north. I'm grateful I'd done that online shopping for hiking clothes, because that's the type of day Beau has in mind. He fills canteens with water from my sink as I change. I pour coffee into a thermos as he uses the bathroom.

He doesn't want to go quite so far as the Teton Wilderness, but instead circles an area closer to the National Park. I'm familiar with some of the trails, but not the one he describes with a sneaky smile.

"It's a surprise," he laughs as I try to search where he's taking me. "It's not gonna show up on your phone."

When I vault into the passenger seat, he surprises me by pulling out a pair of hiking boots from the back of his truck. I'd considered purchasing a pair of my own, but I hadn't wanted to go through the work of breaking them in. And I'd been a little hesitant to abandon my mom's boots, despite their poor fit and peeling soles. Beau, however, had done his research. The boots he'd chosen were an updated model of my mom's. He'd clearly worked the leather until it was supple, eased the soles from their stiffness. And he promised he had some moleskin in his pack if I got blisters.

"If I get blisters," I warn him, as I pull them on. "You're carrying me."

He flashes me a grin like there is nothing he'd like more, but he doesn't say anything as he starts the engine and points us north.

The drive passes with intervals of comfortable quiet, bits of chatter and teasing, and music from the radio. I tell him about stories and made-up animal facts and adventures I'd shared with my mom. He talks about the mischief he used to get into with his cousins. Beau has one hand on the steering wheel, the other on my knee.

Near the park entrance, Beau turns us from the pavement to a dirt road that winds deeper into the forest. We leave the bustle of the main visitor area behind us as Beau flashes a badge to one of the park rangers who smiles and waves us along. The grandeur of the Tetons looms in the distance, stoic and majestic and silent. Every so often, sunbeams punctuate the canopy, turning the road's dust motes into tiny sparks of gold.

I steal a glance at Beau. In the light of day, all the hard angles and lines of his face are on display. The cut of his cheeks, the angle of his jaw, the little scar near his temple. He looks sculpted, inhuman, against the wild backdrop. And for a minute, he looks too perfect to be a real person. In an instant, the stoic planes of his face fade as he winks at me for catching me staring. He squeezes my knee, sending a rush of butterflies that I could have sworn I'd smothered years ago.

We pull up to a narrow trailhead hidden behind a copse of pines. Beau changes into his hiking boots and grabs his pack from the trunk, double checking that we have everything we might need. I make him stop to put on sunscreen with me, which I can tell he thinks is ridiculous, but he dutifully does so.

And then we're off. Boots crunching into gravel, then dirt, then over stone. The summer air, though still on the cooler side of noon, is starting to rise with heat, waking and stirring insects into song with it. Even though the boots are new, they're perfect.

The trail is empty save for us. It twists through dense forest, a labyrinth of towering trees and dappled sunlight. And steep inclines, rock slides, and broken trail markers that explain why it's empty of the packs of tourists trekking out to Jenny Lake. With Beau guiding me, I barely have to pay attention to where I'm walking. He occasionally pulls a branch off the path or marks a missing mile marker on the map... and I get to focus on the little details: the way the moss clings to trunks, the sound of distant water, the occasional splash of color from flowers from the edge of the path. Just like the drive, we alternate between comfortable quiet and easy conversation.

I've been running for years, but it doesn't change the face that the altitude and incline are killing me. But Beau is always happy to stop, happy to hear me breathlessly quip about over conditioned mountain men leading unsuspecting paralegals into the woods. He doesn't complain, but stops to pretend to adjust his laces or check the map when he thinks I'm being too stubborn to stop.

When he makes a vague comment about needing to move some of the roughage from the trail, I pause to sit and drink more water and just absorb the quiet wilderness around us.

"I feel like I know this trail," I tell him suddenly as I study the switchbacks ahead of us that are littered with wildflowers. "I swear I'm having the weirdest feeling of deja vu."

He doesn't contradict me, though we both know it's impossible. He just nods. "Didn't you mom say there was something magic about wild places? Maybe this one is just welcoming you."

That he says it with no teasing, no hint of disbelief, almost makes me melt. Because there's a strange warmth that isn't just the sun and my overtaxed muscles. It's deeper, something primal and tender. I really like Beau. I barely know him, and I like him. His steadiness, the comforting quiet matched by teasing humor. The way he meticulously double checked all the supplies before we left. How he stands when he scrambles eggs in my kitchen. I like that there's no malice in him... that he has the same magic my mom had.

Beau makes everywhere feel like it's where I'm supposed to be. And, despite the giddiness he makes me feel, it makes me so scared that I want to book it down the mountainside. So I swallow and make my choice.

I'm not going to run. I'm not going to push him away.

Today, I'm leaning in.

"Yeah," I finally say. "I guess it is."

Beau holds out his hand to pull me to my feet. "Come on," he says. "Surprise is up the switchbacks."

I follow him up the trail, wondering if he's part goat with the way his feet so easily eat up the incline. I resort to making self-deprecating jokes and light threats of bodily harm as we gain elevation. When the trail becomes rocky and steep, Beau offers his arm for support. And I shove away that stubborn part of me that's trembling at the thought of relying on someone else. Because Beau isn't going to let me go. I can see it in the gray in his thundercloud eyes. I can feel it in the way he tempers his strength. Every look, every touch we share, pushes that fear away, replaces it with a promise of safety, connection. Maybe love.

I scoff at the thought. Because I'm lightheaded, mountain sick, clearly. Beau just shoots me a grin and pulls me up the last fifty feet.

When the incline tapers, I first glimpse the surprise.

Stretching for miles, untouched by people or boats or docks, is a clear blue lake, still and perfect, reflecting the summer sky. The water glitters, cold and inviting, and I can't help the surge of childlike desire to cannonball straight into it.

"It's a good surprise," I whisper, still a little breathless.

Beau nods, and for a moment, we just stand there, watching the gentle tide break over the stones, the snow-tipped mountains standing guard around us. Then, with a spark of mischief, he fixes his stormy eyes to me. "Let's go swimming."

Before I can think to argue, I kick off my boots, strip off my extra layers. The water is shockingly cold. My skin tingles with shivers and goosebumps. My heart pounds into a pounding cadence as a thread of anticipation burns through me.

I wade deeper, following Beau as he dives beneath the glittering surface. Soon we're splashing and laughing beneath a perfect summer sun, and—for those precious moments—everything feels unburdened. There is no tug at my chest, no dark SUVs following me home, no worries about work or Crestline or debt... there's just us.

When my laughter starts to turn to chattering teeth, we escape to dry off on the sun-baked rocks on the shore. Dripping water, Beau's eyes are bright with exhilaration. Despite the hard angles of his face, he looks younger with the ghost of laughter still at his lips.

I lean back, letting the warmth seep into my skin, feeling the quiet hum of the forest, the pulse of the water lapping at the shore. "I almost feels too perfect," I say.

Beau studies me for a moment before sitting beside me. "What do you mean?"

I gesture at the untouched lake, the pristine blue of the sky. "Like we wandered into a dream. Like it's not really ours to have."

The brush of Beau's warm hand against my fingers sends a bolt of desire through me. He's achingly close. I can see the water in his eyelashes, feel the heat of his body next to mine. "Maybe it's not about having it," he says quietly. "Maybe it's just about being lucky enough to hold on to it for a little while."

His words settle over me—gentle, a touch of melancholy, impossible to ignore. The air between us grows taught, like the static-brushed moments before lightning strikes. The playful glances, the teasing smiles... they've faded into something far more dangerous. Charged.

Without warning, without the barrier of icy lake water between us, his hand slides to my waist. The contact sends bright, addictive electricity through me, pulsing and burning. I lean toward him, compelled. The desire to close the distance, to feel the true warmth of his skin, to let go of control and security rushes through me with such insistent force that it's hard to breath.

I lean into him, my heart in my throat. Sunshine and pine and mountain air threaten to suffocate me as Beau's hand lazily moves and moves and moves. The skin along my hip, below my ribs, my collarbone, a brush across my lower lip. For a long moment, we're suspended in that charged space, eyes locked. A dreamlike stillness holds us in its strange embrace.

Then, as if the mountain itself is holding its breath, Beau's lips brush mine. Soft, tentative. It's as if he means to kiss me so gently that it barely counts as the kiss we've been dancing around, as if it doesn't count as crossing the boundaries we've been so careful to toe. My eyes flutter close as I breathe him in. All the lingering tension, the arguments I've been drafting in my head, the fear and doubt, melt away with his touch, the heat of his body.

His gentleness.

I start to speak, to beg him to continue, but before the words can leave my lips, as if he can read my thoughts, Beau deepens the kiss. A cascade of wildfire erupts along my nerves, burning through me, threatening to leave me burned. I don't care. Beau's hand twists itself into my hair, his massive strength is hovering over me, forming a cage of his body that eclipses the sun. And still, I'm desperate to have him closer, to make the world vanish, to know nothing but the taste of him on my lips.

Then he pulls away. Indignant, fiery anger rises from the ashes of our kiss. I want to claw at him, to punish him for being so cruel, for stopping. But even in the haze of growing fury, I can see that he is pained. The lines of his body, the edges of his muscle, the tight grip of his fingers into my hip... all of it is taut, to the point of breaking. There is lightening in his storm-colored eyes. A battle that he's barely keeping under control. His voice comes hoarse, as if he's forgotten how to make words.

"I—Rhea... look, there's things you need—"

And I realize that he's not going to kiss me. Not going to touch me with his addictive hands. Not unless I make him. With a strength that surprises me, I pulled his head back to me. My words are barely more than a growl, gasping and yearning and raw.

"Just shut up and kiss me, Beau."

It's not begging, not pleading, but a command so absolute, that he cannot turn away. Beau answers with another searing kiss, demanding everything, all of me. The restraint, the careful cage he'd formed around me, burns away. His hands are pressed into my flesh, almost bruising at my hip, brushing at the base of my sports bra. His mouth is hot, relentless, against mine.

I answer in equal savagery. I tug at his hair, trace my nails along the breadth of his shoulders, bite at his lip. Heat sparks under each touch. It coils, low and restless, in my stomach. It's more than want, more than desire. Like the mountain air, the touch of sunshine, I need more of him. A deep, inexplicable hunger demands more than the physical, more than this afternoon by the lake. The bottomless longing for more should scare me. It doesn't.

Time skips in flashes as my mind goes hazy in the fevered rush, this endless moment. Beau lips at my throat, his teeth at the angle of my neck. The sound of his groan as I return the favor, nipping at his ear, grabbing at his ass, the waistband of his pants. Laughing as he captures my wandering hands above my head, pushes my back to the warm stone so that he can pin me to the earth. The pressure of his body, delicious and overwhelming and perfect, drives an involuntary whimper from my lips as he rolls his hips against mine.

"That's right," he murmurs, his mouth against my ear. His eyes reflect the yellow sunlight off the lake. His eyes, his hair, his skin—everything is washed in a hazy gold. The air grows thin and tight as his tongue flirts with the edge of my ear. "Tell me what feels good."

I'm weak, shivery, pushing my hips against his, begging soundlessly for him to claim every part of me. Because I have no words. His mouth on my throat, his weight against me, his knee between my legs. Everything. It's somehow too much and not enough and my thoughts are nothing more than greedy impulse.

His lips travel from my ear to my throat, rubbing the rough edge of his jaw there, pressing his lips, his teeth, his tongue. It's not enough. Too teasing, too light. Each subtle brush draws a frustrated moan from me, but my wordless pleading only makes him move slower, makes him linger at each inch of my neck, breathing me in. In contrast, his hand at my wrists is firm, unyielding. I rock my hips against his in protest. I twist to try to break free, to force my hands and mouth onto him if he won't touch me the way I so desperately want. He keeps me pinned, retreats without giving up ground. He robs me of the friction my body demands.

"Beau—I—" but the commands don't become coherent. His breathing grows raspy, heavy, as he continues to tease, as all his attention is on the hypersensitive skin of my neck, my collarbones. As if he knows exactly how frustrated I am, how close I am to dissolving into nothing, his free hand slips into my shorts.

My hips arc towards his touch. Beau's mouth is back near my ear, his chest pressed close to mine, as his finger traces the edge of my clit. I can feel his thundering heartbeat despite the pounding of my own. The moment his grip eases on my wrists, I move. I pull his head to mine, capturing in a deep kiss that almost makes my teeth ache. Beau groans into my mouth as his finger delves deeper, into the burning center of me.

He breaks away from my savage kiss to stare into my eyes, to lick up the side of my neck. My core cramps with a filthy pleasure. The little whimpers threaten to become something much louder.

"Fuck, Rhea," Beau growls, his lips still pressed to my neck. "I could take you right here, couldn't I?"

I moan in agreement, rocking my hips hard against his hand. Even though he curls the digit deliciously, rubs his thumb against my clit, my nerves are screaming for more. More pressure, deeper, harder, faster. But Beau is lamentably still.

His phone is ringing.

"Ignore it."

The growl that comes from my chest surprises me. My words are barely human, so twisted with frustration and passion. Beau obeys, pumping his fingers, stoking the fire back into inferno.

And then his phone rings again. Hangs up. Rings again.

Beau swears viciously, voice as rough as mine. His eyes flash with bright anger, regret, frustration, and something primal that calls to the savage disappointment in my chest. Jaw clenched, he swallows and slowly removes his hand.

"I have to take it." There's a hint of urgency in his voice, but he pauses to press a kiss to my hipbone. "I'm sorry."

I try to protest, to plead, my pulse still roaring in my ears, but he's already on his feet. The loss of the heat, his weight—I'm left alone with the ghost of his touch. My skin electrified, my heart aching. I press my fingers to my swollen lips, the chafed skin of my jaw and neck. A strange wave of pleasure hums as I trace the echoing imprint of his mouth.

The conversation on his phone is muffled, but I catch the fragments of his tone, I notice the tight lines of his posture. Something is wrong. Anger ripples through Beau as he listens, as he murmurs something unintelligible in reply. Dark and stormy, his eyes find mine.

Despite the warmth of the sun, the passion we just shared, I feel cold.

After what feels like an eternity, Beau ends the call. He sits back beside me, pulls me into his lap. Or maybe I climbed into it. The tug in my chest now feels like a magnet, only content when his skin is against mine. His voice is soft as he presses his mouth to my damp hair.

"I really want to finish this," he says, voice raw with its sincerity. "But we have to head back."

Though he doesn't say it, I can hear what he means. He's needed back in Moran. The little community that orbits him. Strangely, no jealousy burns with that truth.

"Okay."

Even though that thread of urgency hasn't left, we linger for a quiet moment. Just us and the mountain.

The hike back is physically easier than our ascent, but it still takes until sunset to reach his truck. Beau bundles me in his jacket, makes sure I'm steady on the steep descents. He tucks me into the passenger seat, feeds me a dinner of granola bars and trail mix. He holds my hand as he drives, occasionally pausing to press his lips to the back of it. Our conversation is minimal, but the long silence during the drive doesn't feel uncomfortable. Not exactly.

I can feel his tension, that there's something churning underneath the surface of his stoicism. And I can feel that the little glances he gives me, the touches, the kisses to my hand... it's soothing him. Even if it's just a little.

It soothes me, too. A little.

Because, in our quiet, my brain won't stop re-playing the afternoon. Though my muscles feel loose and tired from the exertion, my skin is starting to prickle again. That heat, which I'm realizing is just sexual frustration, is threatening to re-build under my skin.

The sky is dark by the time Beau pulls up outside my apartment. As the truck rumbles to a stop, my heart flutters unhappily in my chest. I know he can't stay, and I don't want to beg.

I sit back, reluctant to let go of the warm, reassuring grip around my fingers. Beau seems to feel the same. He lifts my hand to his lips again. His own mouth curves, but there's a rueful tilt to it that makes the discontent a little easier to bear.

"This is where I drop you off." His voice is soft as he kills the engine.

I nod, matching his bitter smile. He squeezes my hand, releases it slowly.

Beau is unhurried when it comes to helping me out of the truck, carrying my bag, lingering outside my door. I fumble with my keys.

"I can't convince you to stay." It's not a question, because that edge has not left his eyes. I know he needs to be back in Moran. I know that begging him would only hurt us a both. Still, there's a thread of hopefulness in my words.

Beau shakes his head, raising his hand to tuck my hair behind my ear. "I wish I could," he says softly. Stormy gray eyes search mine with an earnest intensity that makes my breath catch.

"Listen," he says. He gently cups my cheek, brushing his thumb across my skin. The gentle touch belies the firm undercurrent in his words. "I've got to deal with something, but I need you to stay safe for the next few days. Don't go out alone—especially at night. No solo hiking."

There's an old part of me that itches to argue with him, but the new warm feeling next to my heart won't let the words out. I nod slowly.

Beau's eyes soft as he leans in close, as if he's breathing me in, before capturing my lips in a lingering kiss. The kiss sings of longing and promise and the unspoken plea that I won't run from this, won't fight it any longer. His lips, warm and gentle, trace mine, as if memorizing every detail.

When he finally pulls back, his thundercloud eyes are fixed to mine. There's tenderness there. And a flash of worry. My mind races with a thousand questions I won't ask: the phone call, the dangers he's hinting at, when I'll see him again...

I force myself to smile, even though that seed of discontent at the thought of him leaving is blooming in unrest. "Feel free to kidnap me again sometime, okay?"

Beau gives me a small smile back, barely more than a twitch of the corner of his mouth.

A big part of me is hoping for another kiss. Or that he pushes the door open and follows me to the bedroom, the shower, the countertop... fuck, even the floor would do. But every muscle of his body seemed torn between staying and leaving. So I don't make it harder.

"I'll be okay," I tell him, unlocking my door. "I promise."

He swallows, stands sentinel in my perfectly safe hallway. I shrug off his jacket, holding it out to him, but he shakes his head. He pushes it back to me.

"Stay safe, Rhea," he murmurs, running a hand through his dark blond hair. Neither of us want to say goodbye. "Call me if you need me. I'll wait until I hear the lock."

I nod again. Close the door. Lock it. I add the deadbolt for good measure. And listen. Silence. Then quiet footsteps.

The apartment feels uncomfortable empty, impossibly huge without him in it. I linger near the window so that I can watch Beau get into his truck, watch him pull away. I can't tell his mood from the distance, but his posture seems stiffer.

After a moment of stillness, waiting until I'm certain he's not coming back, I feel the prickling tension, the disquiet beneath my skin threaten to return. Beau was like a balm against it, a temporary reprieve.

Though, I suppose, it's not as bad as it was before. The warmth in my chest mellows the urge to re-organize my pantry, go for a run, burrow into my bed. It's not the same peace that Beau's touch brought, but it's enough to let me get through the evening. Shower. Eat leftover takeout. Normal things. Instead of the racing thoughts, the relentless anxious energy, I'm calm. Content, even.

Sure, I would really like for Beau to finish what he'd started, to lose myself in his body. There's a foreign part of me that even wants to wake up next to him, to make him eggs and toast and coffee every morning. To spend our weekends hiking and holding hands in his stupid, muddy truck, and...

I laugh, because this is crazy. Not in the insane way I've felt over the last few weeks, but crazy in an unbelievable way. I, Rhea Dawson, have a crush. Images of the passion by the lake, the memory of his hands against my body flood my brain. Okay, more than a crush.

I want Beau for more than a night. More than a couple nights.

When I crawl into bed, wrapped in Beau's jacket, and feel for the warm tether around my ribs, my heart beats gentle, easy. There's a hint of sorrow. I wish I could tell my mom about Beau.

So I whisper into the dark, "I'm ready." It's barely more than a breath, but it echoes through me. "I'm ready for more."

There's no glimmer of moonlight or brush of a phantom presence, but I'm warmed by my assertion. I think that my mom would like him.

I fall asleep with the scent of a summer forest around me.