Page 102 of Wood Riddance
“Same. My mom would lose it.”
“Mine too. She’s a huge fan.” Adele dropped to the rock beside me. “Alice was obsessed with her bridal magazine while she was wedding planning last year.”
“Should we ask for a photo?”
“No. I don’t want to be one of those people.” She shook her head. “We’re both sweaty and gross anyway.”
“You’re right. I didn’t even put on deodorant this morning,” I admitted.
“Finn,” she huffed. “That’s gross.”
I shrugged. “We got up at five to climb up a rock face. I forgot.”
She shimmied closer and kissed my cheek. “It’s a good thing you’re so handsome.”
“And sweet,” I said, dipping down to capture her mouth in a quick kiss.
“The sweetest. Now let’s hike back down. I want pancakes.”
I stood and held out a hand to help her up. It was past eight, so it wouldn’t be long before the trail was crowded with tourists who didn’t know how to safely navigate this type of hike.
The trail down the mountain was less dangerous, but it was long. So without any more hesitation, we headed out, scaling the large rocks at the summit.
I’d found my footing on an even patch of ground when a voice called out overhead. “Could you give me a hand?”
Squinting into the sunlight, I discovered Susan Stephens crouching above me, inching her way down the massive rock.
I held out my hand to her, and she grasped it, steading herself as she stepped down carefully.
And then she was standing directly in front of me. If I hadn’t been sure of her identity before, it was obvious now.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” she said. Her trademark Southern drawl was thick, and she turned on her charm. “Oh my goodness! You are a tall drink of water. How tall are you?”
If I didn’t know better, I would have assumed this woman was flirting with me.
“About six foot six first thing in the morning,” I replied politely.
She patted my forearm, seemingly unfazed by the sheen of sweat and dust coating it. “What’s your name?”
“Finn Hebert, ma’am,” I replied, “And this is my girlfriend, Adele Gagnon.”
Adele gave her a tight smile, clearly starstruck.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you both,” she said. “Now tell me all about yourselves. We’ve got quite a long hike down, and my guests”—she waved at the entourage of sweating, exhausted people working their way down the boulders we’d traversed—“aren’t up for the challenge of keeping up with me.”
* * *
Susan Stephens was one scary woman, and she was objectively hilarious. She told us wild stories about how she brought along a cocktail shaker when she hiked Kilimanjaro so she could enjoy a decent drink at the summit. Adele and I listened as she recounted wild adventures she’d taken part in all over the world and introduced us to the folks hiking with her, which included her personal assistant, her publicist, two internationally known fashion designers, and the editor-in-chief of her travel magazine.
According to her publicist, Susan had woken them up at four a.m. for sunrise yoga, followed by this grueling hike. Apparently, as an employee, one’s job requirements included jumping on her private jet for random weekend trips on demand.
She was an alpha dog. Not once did she let a person pass her on the trail, but her stories made up for it. She was damn impressive. This hike would have had most of my Navy buddies complaining, but she never slowed down.
“You’re a pilot?”
“Navy,” Adele cut in, elaborating for me. “And a recipient of the Flying Naval Cross.”
Though I was dripping with sweat and my face was surely flushed, heat still crept up my neck. Adele was bragging about me to a real-life billionaire. I shot her a look, silently begging her to let it go, but she didn’t seem deterred.
