Page 5 of Wild About the Mountain Guide
As I approach her, I spot a sleek paperback with a blood-splattered title poking out of her bag.
“Interesting reading material,” I say.
She looks up. “Oh?”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to snoop. You’re an author, right? My friend’s wife is a big fan of your books. Apparently, you’re famous.”
A flush creeps up her neck. “Not famous enough to get out of this retreat, apparently. My editor sent me here against my will.”
“Really?”
She laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Let’s just say the advance I got came with strings attached. Very outdoorsy strings.”
“Well, you followed the gear advice from the welcome email. That’s a good start.”
“I may be terrified, but I’m not stupid. I don’t want to end up dead like one of my characters.”
Something about her dry honesty makes me want to smile, but I catch myself. The last thing I need is to get distracted by a client, even a beautiful one who writes bestselling thrillers and has enough self-awareness to know she’s in over her head.
But as we’re doing final gear checks, I notice Peyton struggling with her pack’s hip belt. The waist strap is twisted and sitting wrong, which will cause her pain within the first mile, if not sooner.
“Hold on,” I say. “Mind if I adjust that for you?”
She looks relieved. “Please. I have no idea what I’m doing.”
I step closer, reaching around to untangle the belt. “The weight should sit on your hips, not your shoulders. Like this,” I explain while I position her pack.
When I tighten her hip belt, my knuckles brush against her waist, and her breath catches. We’re standing close enough that I can smell her shampoo mixed with the crisp mountain air. I swallow. This is the first time in all my years of guiding people into the wilderness that I’ve had such a visceral reaction to someone.
My voice is husky as I ask, “How’s that feel?”
She smiles. “Much better. Thank you.”
For a moment, we stand there, and I’m suddenly overcome by a desire to impress her. To be the kind of man she can count on. I quickly push those thoughts aside. They make me sound crazy. We’ve only just met, and she paid me to take care of her.
“All right, everyone,” I call out, shouldering my pack with an encouraging smile. “Time to see what these mountains have in store for us. Stay close, stay curious, and let’s make some memories.”
Chapter Three
Peyton
Thirty minutes into our transformative wilderness experience, and I’m already questioning every life choice that brought me here. We walk single file along what Knox generously calls a trail, but what looks more like someone pushed a few branches aside. My brand-new hiking boots are cutting off the blood supply in my feet, and my backpack feels like I’m lugging a small refrigerator.
To keep myself from crying, I distract myself with revenge fantasies. I can’t help it. It’s the thriller author in me. Right now, I’m imagining sending my editor, Melissa, on a wilderness retreat. Preferably during mosquito season. With no coffee and a tent that leaks. Oh, and during a pitch-black night with eerie animal sounds.
She’d love that, right?
“So fun,” she’d say, right before realizing she forgot her dry shampoo and discovering that the only toilet around is the one you dig yourself behind a tree.
There’s nothing fun about this whole ordeal. My calves are on fire, my water bottle has already leaked all over my sleeping bag, and I’m pretty sure there’s something gross in my hair. I still don’t get how this is supposed to inspire me to finish mythriller. I doubt I’ll write a single word this week. I’ll be too busy surviving to have creative ideas.
“Everyone doing okay back there?” Knox calls over his shoulder.
He’s smiling like this is nothing but a scenic stroll. He could probably navigate these mountains blindfolded without breaking a sweat, while my shirt is already clinging to my back, even though it’s supposed to be moisture-wicking. I make a silent deal with myself to start working out if I survive this week. I knew spending all day hunched over my laptop wasn’t exactly doing my stamina any favors, but I didn’t think my sedentary lifestyle would leave me gasping halfway up a gentle incline.
“I’m doing great,” Harmony chirps from behind me, her crystal necklaces jingling annoyingly with every step. At least her sage stick has finally stopped smoking. It was making my eyes water. “I can feel Mother Earth welcoming us with open arms.”
I want to point out that Mother Earth’s idea of a welcome seems to involve a lot of rocks specifically engineered to trip people, but I’m too busy trying not to face-plant into a tree to respond.
