before I can stop myself.
“You know what we used to celebrate?” Chelsea tightens her lips and raises her eyebrows.
I get it. Another jab at me. Another way to tell me what I jerk I was last night. Can that whole thing really have only happened last night?
I stare at Chelsea. At this rate, it’ll take about forty years to get to the end of her vacation.
“Orchid hunt,” I suggest. “Nice gentle hike. Never seen anything as pretty as a Minnesota orchid.”
As soon as she relaxes her face, washing the angry scowl off, I know what I’ve just said is absolute bull. Chelsea’s far prettier than any old flower.
But she agrees—at last. Nods an okay. “Just let me grab a camera,”
she says. The boards of the cabin porch thunk beneath her feet as she hurries inside to get it.
We get in the truck; my old GMC’s the only one willing to do any talking. It creaks and groans and shimmies, but Chelsea only stares through the windshield. And when we get to the lake, she throws open her door and starts stomping toward the water’s edge. I lean forward, fish the camera Kenzie keeps loaning me out of the glove compartment. And I dive out of the truck, rushing to catch up.
“Chelse,” I try, but she ignores me.
I stare at her back, wondering what it is about a ponytail. Just a simple blond ponytail, fastened up high on the back of a girl’s head. 90/262
And what is it about Chelsea’s ponytail, in particular, that lays a thick fog all across my brain?
As soon as I wonder, the answer appears: It’s the way that ponytail exposes the sweet, soft skin on the back of her neck. It’s the way the breeze teases strands free, begging a guy to imagine what it would be like to slide that ponytail holder out, to bury his nose in her hair. I shake my head. Knock it off, Clint .
“Chelsea!” I call, trying to get her to turn around. But that ponytail is all Chelsea’s willing to give me. She sloshes through the fringe of the lake in a near-stomp. She doesn’t press forward like the athlete I’m told she once was, though; her feet don’t have purpose, her arms flop around sloppily. She’s rusty. Out of practice.
“Careful,” I try to warn her.
But she only slams her feet against the earth more forcefully. Shoves the soles of her sneakers so deep into pockets of mud that she occasionally has to pause to wrench herself free. I press a little faster, trying to catch up. When I get close enough for my toes to kick water onto the backs of her calves, she starts to pump her arms and rush ahead, increasing the space between us. Just as I decide to let her have it, the space, she takes her longsleeved shirt off and ties it around her waist. The tank top underneath shows off the curve of her slender shoulders. I swear, her tanned skin is the same shade as a just-baked piece of pastry. It literally makes my mouth water.
I do not want this , I remind myself. My body, yet again, disagrees. The sun reaches through the branches of the swamp maples overhead, spills across my shoulders. But Chelsea is what warms my body. This is stupid , I try to tell myself. But my body feels what it wants to anyway.
“Chelsea,” I call. “Chelse!”
91/262
“I’m on it,” she shouts over her shoulder. She’s kind of mall-walking, pumping her arms, the silver exterior of her digital camera catching the sun and tossing it around wildly. “Look—I’m hiking, see? Don’t have to ask me twice, don’t have to wait a whole minute and ten seconds to get started. No way. Not quitting, not me.”
“Truce!” I finally shout.
For the first time since she stepped from the truck, she stops. Just stops, without turning around, her breath gasping out of her body so harshly that her shoulder blades heave up and down.
“Look, I’m sorry, okay—I was out of line last night,” I say to her back. “Let’s forget it, just move on from here. Nothing high-impact. Just a nice hike. Photograph a few orchids along the way. Never—never seen
“You know what we used to celebrate?” Chelsea tightens her lips and raises her eyebrows.
I get it. Another jab at me. Another way to tell me what I jerk I was last night. Can that whole thing really have only happened last night?
I stare at Chelsea. At this rate, it’ll take about forty years to get to the end of her vacation.
“Orchid hunt,” I suggest. “Nice gentle hike. Never seen anything as pretty as a Minnesota orchid.”
As soon as she relaxes her face, washing the angry scowl off, I know what I’ve just said is absolute bull. Chelsea’s far prettier than any old flower.
But she agrees—at last. Nods an okay. “Just let me grab a camera,”
she says. The boards of the cabin porch thunk beneath her feet as she hurries inside to get it.
We get in the truck; my old GMC’s the only one willing to do any talking. It creaks and groans and shimmies, but Chelsea only stares through the windshield. And when we get to the lake, she throws open her door and starts stomping toward the water’s edge. I lean forward, fish the camera Kenzie keeps loaning me out of the glove compartment. And I dive out of the truck, rushing to catch up.
“Chelse,” I try, but she ignores me.
I stare at her back, wondering what it is about a ponytail. Just a simple blond ponytail, fastened up high on the back of a girl’s head. 90/262
And what is it about Chelsea’s ponytail, in particular, that lays a thick fog all across my brain?
As soon as I wonder, the answer appears: It’s the way that ponytail exposes the sweet, soft skin on the back of her neck. It’s the way the breeze teases strands free, begging a guy to imagine what it would be like to slide that ponytail holder out, to bury his nose in her hair. I shake my head. Knock it off, Clint .
“Chelsea!” I call, trying to get her to turn around. But that ponytail is all Chelsea’s willing to give me. She sloshes through the fringe of the lake in a near-stomp. She doesn’t press forward like the athlete I’m told she once was, though; her feet don’t have purpose, her arms flop around sloppily. She’s rusty. Out of practice.
“Careful,” I try to warn her.
But she only slams her feet against the earth more forcefully. Shoves the soles of her sneakers so deep into pockets of mud that she occasionally has to pause to wrench herself free. I press a little faster, trying to catch up. When I get close enough for my toes to kick water onto the backs of her calves, she starts to pump her arms and rush ahead, increasing the space between us. Just as I decide to let her have it, the space, she takes her longsleeved shirt off and ties it around her waist. The tank top underneath shows off the curve of her slender shoulders. I swear, her tanned skin is the same shade as a just-baked piece of pastry. It literally makes my mouth water.
I do not want this , I remind myself. My body, yet again, disagrees. The sun reaches through the branches of the swamp maples overhead, spills across my shoulders. But Chelsea is what warms my body. This is stupid , I try to tell myself. But my body feels what it wants to anyway.
“Chelsea,” I call. “Chelse!”
91/262
“I’m on it,” she shouts over her shoulder. She’s kind of mall-walking, pumping her arms, the silver exterior of her digital camera catching the sun and tossing it around wildly. “Look—I’m hiking, see? Don’t have to ask me twice, don’t have to wait a whole minute and ten seconds to get started. No way. Not quitting, not me.”
“Truce!” I finally shout.
For the first time since she stepped from the truck, she stops. Just stops, without turning around, her breath gasping out of her body so harshly that her shoulder blades heave up and down.
“Look, I’m sorry, okay—I was out of line last night,” I say to her back. “Let’s forget it, just move on from here. Nothing high-impact. Just a nice hike. Photograph a few orchids along the way. Never—never seen
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