Page 2 of Wild About the Mountain Guide
I take a large gulp of coffee to avoid answering immediately. The truth is, I thinkSpirit of the Wildsounds like a New Age yoga class had a baby with a camping supply store. What kind of mountain guide comes up with a name like that? I’m picturing someone who probably has strong opinions about organic granola and refers to hiking as “earth kissing.”
“It’s… evocative,” I finally manage.
“Exactly! My creative chakras are aligning just thinking about it. What about you? Are you a spiritual facilitator like me?”
“No, I write psychological thrillers,” I say, watching her face light up like I’ve told her I commune with spirits for a living.
“Oh, my goodness, yes, babe! The darkness and light, the tension between civilization and our wild nature…” She smiles. “You’re going to have such incredible breakthroughs out there. In fact, I’m working on a manuscript about crystal healing and past-life regression myself. Maybe we could exchange writing tips?”
I nod and smile, but inside, I wonder what I’ve gotten myself into. If this is my fellow retreat-goer, what will the guide be like? Some bearded guy in Birkenstocks who wants us to hug trees and write haikus about our feelings? I suddenly feel a bit sick.
“Do you know where I can find the bus timetable?” I ask Amelia, ready to get out of here.
I’ll come up with an excuse later. Something dramatic like a bee attack. Maybe I could even fake a sprained ankle. Heck, I write thrillers for a living, so I should be able to come up with a convincing medical emergency.
But as I’m about to bolt, my phone buzzes with a text from Melissa:
Hope you’re settling in! Can’t wait to hear about your wilderness inspiration. Remember, we need that manuscript in eight weeks, or else…
Eight weeks. I clutch my coffee tighter and look out the window at the towering mountains. Guess I can kiss the whole bolting idea goodbye. It’s no use anyway. Melissa would be fuming and still wouldn’t have a finished manuscript.
The bell above the door chimes. I look up, expecting another weirdo who signed up for this retreat, but a tall, bearded, muscular man walks in. I instinctively step aside to make room for him.
“Morning, Amelia,” he says as he approaches the counter. “Can I get an extra-large coffee to go and a couple of your signature cinnamon rolls?”
She smiles. “Sure. Tough day ahead?”
“More like a tough week. The guys and I all picked straws to decide who would lead theSpirit of the Wildretreat. Except for Sawyer. He got a pass because he’s about to become a father. I’m the unlucky guy who drew the short straw. Again.”
I almost choke on my coffee. This guy is going to lead the retreat? He looks nothing like the tree-hugging hippie I imagined. On the contrary. He looks tough with a side of grumpy and moves with a confidence that makes me suspect he’s brilliant with an axe—and I don’t mean that in the thriller novel, murdering kind of way.
“It’s only one week, Knox. You’ll be fine.”
“Fine? I’ve got a group of city folks who think they’re going to find their ‘authentic selves’ by sleeping under the stars for a week. Half of them have probably never been more than ten feet from a Starbucks. Some of them even love the name. Spirit of the Wild…” He pronounces it as if it physically hurts him to do so. “We came up with it as a silly marketing ploy, and it stuck. Unfortunately.”
I take another gulp of coffee and try to shrink further into a corner, but Harmony has other plans.
“Excuse me,” she calls out, walking over to us. “Are you our guide? I’m Harmony, and this is—” She gestures toward me with the enthusiasm of someone introducing a celebrity.
“Peyton Reed,” I stammer.
Knox turns to us, and I get my first good look at him. Dark hair with even darker eyes, and a jawline that could probably cut glass. He also looks like he’d rather be anywhere else in the world than here talking to us.
I tell myself I’m intimidated by his vibe. That the flustered sensation in my chest has nothing to do with the way his eyes flick to mine and linger longer than necessary.
“You two here for theSpirit of the Wildretreat? If so, then yes, I’m your guide,” he confirms.
“Oh, this is so exciting!” Harmony claps her hands, making her seventeen crystal necklaces jingle like wind chimes. “I can already sense your connection to the earth’s energy. You have such a grounded aura.”
Knox’s expression suggests he doesn’t believe in auras, but he manages a tight smile. “Right. Well, we’ll be meeting at the Hartley Peak Adventures Outpost in an hour. I hope you both brought appropriate gear.”
I catch him looking at my designer jeans and leather ankle boots.
“Define appropriate,” I squeak.
The briefest flash of what might be amusement crosses his face before it’s replaced by professional resignation. “Hiking boots would be a start. Weather-appropriate clothing is a must. And basic survival instincts are a plus.”
“I brought crystals for protection!” Harmony offers.
