Page 8 of Mashed Hearts
“Like a baby. And now, I am a baby who discovered espresso,” I lie, snagging a mug. Our fingers brush when he passes the creamer, and yep, there’s the stomach flip. I blame the altitude.
Hope claps her hands like a camp counselor. “Ladies! Grocery run in T-minus twenty. We’re out of marshmallows, heavy cream, and dignity. Ainsley’s driving.”
Beth groans from the couch, paintbrush already in hand. “I’m on paint duty. The view outside is perfect for some of my creativity. Someone bring me chocolate or I’ll paint you in the scenes as zombies.”
I grab my coat, boots, and the last shred of self-preservation. Josh catches my eye as I head for the door, standing with a coffee mug in his hand, completely casual, like he’s not detonating tiny bombs in my chest.
The grocery store is a zoo—last-minute Thanksgiving panic, carts clashing like bumper cars. Ainsley’s got a list longer than my Target shopping list, Hope’s color-coding produce, and I’m pushing the cart while trying not to think about the way Josh greeted me this morning.
“Earth to Kait,” Hope says, waving a bag of cranberries in my face. “You’ve been staring at the marshmallow fluff like it holds the secrets of the universe.”
“It’s jet-puffed wisdom,” I mutter. “Also, Josh is here and my brain is glitching.”
Ainsley squeals so loud an elderly woman drops her canned yams. “I knew it! The hug last night? Chef’s kiss. The dishes? Foreplay with soap. You’re fucked. Toasted.”
“I’m gluten-free toast,” I hiss, tossing three bags of marshmallows into the cart like I’m armoring for battle. “We’re ancient history. With footnotes.”
Hope snorts. “History just walked in wearing flannel and tanned forearms of emotional baggage. Proceed with caution.”
We load up on enough carbs to feed a small army and speed back to the cabin, where the guys have apparently turned the living room into a pillow fort battlefield. Micah’s lobbing socks; Jack’s using a baguette as a sword. Josh is refereeing, shirt riding up just enough to reveal that happy trail I absolutely do not have time to catalog.
“Children,” Ainsley announces, “we brought sustenance. Also, Kait needs a cold shower.”
I flip her off again. Josh catches it, grins, and I die a little.
Afternoon hits and the sun finally burns through the clouds, turning the snow into glitter. Jack claps his hands. “Hike! Short loop, fresh air, zero cell service. Who’s in?”
Everyone. Even Beth, who packs a tiny watercolor kit “for inspiration.”
We bundle up—layers, beanies, the works—and tromp out behind the cabin. The trail’s a gentle climb through pine trees heavy with snow, the kind of quiet that makes you whisper. Josh falls into step beside me without asking, hands shoved in his pockets.
“Remember sophomore year?” he says, breath fogging. “We tried to hike like this at midnight with flashlights and a stolen bottle of Boone’s Farm.”
I laugh despite myself. “You slipped on ice and face-planted into a snowbank. I had to drag you out by your hoodie like a sled dog.”
“Romantic as hell,” he says, nudging my shoulder. “You kissed the snow out of my hair.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “I was checking for concussion.”
“Sure you were.”
The group spreads out—Pete and Ainsley up front holding hands like a damn postcard, Micah geeking out over some moss, Jack and Hope arguing about trail mix ratios. Josh and I lag behind, boots crunching in tandem.
“So,” he says, “thesis on fairy-tale retellings?”
I side-eye him. “Stalker.”
“Jack talks. A lot.” He kicks a pinecone. “You always were the dreamer. Still writing those stories in the margins of your notebooks?”
“Some habits die hard.” I glance at him. “You still chasing adrenaline like its Pokémon?”
He grins. “Got my skydiving instructor certification last semester. Zero regrets.”
“Show-off.”
We reach a lookout—valley spread below us like a blanket, mountains wearing snow caps like crowns. Everyone snaps photos; Beth sketches furiously. Josh leans against a boulder, arms crossed, watching me instead of the view.
“What?” I ask.
