The Lemon Sisters (Wildstone #3)(68)

He said nothing.

She repeated the routine with hot dog number two. Still nothing from Garrett, not even when she held out the last bite, slathered in mustard, and offered it to him. “Wow,” she said. “You’re taking this whole silent thing very seriously. You’ve really got nothing to say?”

“You smell like mustard.”

She smiled.

He looked over at her and shook his head. Okay, so he wasn’t feeling playful . . . And as for the intimidating intensity coming off him, the dark sunglasses were a nice touch. “Are we really just going to pretend that didn’t happen?” she asked.

“Brooke.”

That was it, just her name, uttered in a low warning tone that suggested he was considering pulling over to let her out. Before she could tell him to do just that, he’d turned off on the narrow dirt road, where if you knew the area, you could get to the good spots to climb, and an extremely little-known one in particular called the Playground.

Her heart started to pound. “Um.”

He turned off the truck. “You don’t want to talk about us, and I don’t want to talk about my dad. You still up for this?”

“I assumed we were going to the bluffs,” she said.

He pushed his sunglasses to the top of his head. “You used to say the bluffs were for tourists.”

“When are you going to hear me—things change.”

He paused, cocking his head to one side as he studied her. “Are you telling me you haven’t been to the Playground at all?”

“That’s what I’m telling you.”

He arched a brow, and she sighed. “Look, I’ve wanted to. But if I’ve learned anything, it’s that sometimes you’ve got to try a different route to get where you want to go.”

“And where do you want to go?” he asked.

She tilted her head back and eyed the climb she hadn’t made in years. “Up,” she admitted.

He nodded and took in their view. “Do you trust me?”

She just looked at him.

A rough laugh escaped him. “Okay, so you don’t.”

“Actually, I do.” She paused. “At least with my body—which I’m pretty sure I made clear several times the other night.”

“But?”

“But my brain’s a different beast.”

He nodded. “Then let’s just go for a walk.”

“A walk. To the Playground,” she said, heavy on disbelief.

“Yeah,” he said. “Let’s just go look at it.”

So they got out of the truck. Again she tipped her head back and looked straight up the set of rocky cliffs that once upon a time she could’ve free climbed in her sleep. There were several options available. First, there was what she’d always thought of as the safe way—only a 100-foot climb to a trail that you could use to walk the slow, long way around the back to the top. Second, there was a midlevel option on the far right, a 350-foot jaunt that caught the trail at the midway point. And third, there was the take-your-own-life-in-your-hands way to go, 750 vertical feet straight up.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

“That I wish I hadn’t eaten both hot dogs.”

He snorted and she stepped closer to the rock, eyes locked on the easy route. She’d start there. And before she could give it too much thought, she reached for her first handholds.

Muscle memory was the most amazing thing, she discovered. Her body took over from her brain, and before she knew it, she was halfway up—which she knew because she made the mistake of looking down. “Oh shit,” she whispered, freezing with fifty feet up or fifty feet down to go, a cool breeze brushing over her sweaty face.

“You’re okay.” Garrett was right behind her. As in literally behind her, practically on top of her, clearly in protective mode. “Breathe, Bee.”

Right. She was holding her breath. She gulped in air as he climbed up next to her and came into her personal space bubble, letting go with one hand so he could wrap an arm around her. “Good. Do it again,” he said, and watched her breathe for a beat before giving her a warm smile. “Remember the two tricks.”

“Which are . . . ?”

“Don’t look down, and whatever you do, don’t let go.”

With a breathless laugh, she turned her head and pressed her face into him, which, given their positions, meant into his armpit. He was warm but not sweaty, and he smelled . . . damn. Delicious. Basically the opposite of her. She was hot and clammy. And very sweaty. One, two, three, four . . .

“Look at me, Bee.”

His voice was quiet, calm, and utterly authoritative, so much so that she lifted her head and met those mesmerizing light hazel eyes.

“You’ve got this.”

He could have said, “I’ve got you,” and that would’ve been sweet. But he’d said, “You’ve got this,” meaning he believed in her, and somehow . . . somehow that converted her panic into confidence. With a nod, she looked up . . . and climbed the last fifty feet. Crawling shakily over the edge, she collapsed in a boneless heap. Not great for her ego, and neither was the way she was pulling in air like a beached fish. She hadn’t even started up the trail to the top yet, but she found herself grinning at the sky anyway.