Starry Eyes(38)

“You need to tighten the hip belt,” Lennon says when I try to shrug my pack higher.

“I thought I already had.” I halt and struggle with the straps. Somehow, I think one of them is stuck.

“May I?” he says, offering a hand.

“Um, okay.”

He steps closer. I inhale his sunny, freshly laundered scent. Long, graceful fingers tinker with the fastener around my waist. His hands are more sinewy than I remember. They used to be friend hands, and now they’re boy hands. It’s strange to have him touching me again. Not bad strange. And it’s not as if his hands are all over me—not that I’d want them to be. It’s just not every day that a guy is touching me, busy concentrating on a task that falls right below my breasts. He’s not even looking at them—not that I’d want him to. At least, I shouldn’t. Damn these overactive ovaries!

Calm down, Everhart, I tell myself. I can’t afford to let my imagination run wild around him. The last time that happened, I ended up in his lap on a park bench with his hands up my shirt.

The strap loosens. “Got it,” he says. “How did you manage to get it knotted like that?”

“I’ve got all kinds of talents,” I say.

He makes an amused noise. “You can be in charge of tying all the tent knots, then.”

“No need. The tents Reagan bought are knot-free. They practically pitch themselves. Or so the guy at the outdoor store said. I think he may have been hitting on Reagan, though. Maybe he was just excited because she was spending so much money.”

“I believe that. Some of your gear is primo. I’d almost be impressed, if I thought for a second that Reagan knew what she was doing.”

With a sharp tug, he tightens the strap on my hip belt, and I gasp.

“Too tight?” he asks.

“Just unexpected. I think it’s okay.”

“It should be snug, but not uncomfortable.” He inspects my shoulder harness. “Okay, now these need tightening. Shouldn’t be a gap here, see?” Warm fingers slip between my shoulder blade and the strap. He wiggles them around to demonstrate, and a wave of shivers rushes down my arm.

“Tighten away,” I tell him. In a weird way, all this methodical touching feels like getting a haircut at the salon. It’s almost sensual, but not quite. Or at least you don’t want it to be. The Norwegian man who cuts my hair is older than my dad and wears a lot of rings that clink together in a disconcerting, yet strangely pleasing way when he’s using scissors. I really don’t want to enjoy sexy feelings around Einar, and I definitely don’t want to enjoy them around Lennon. Best to stop thinking about it.

“So, hey,” I say, forcing my mind to concentrate on other things. “Now that I know some of the crazy noises I heard last night were probably Reagan and Brett trampling through the campground, I feel a little better about our earlier talk. You know, about all the wild animals. I mean, I know it will be different out here, but—”

“Oh, it will be completely different,” he says, moving on to my other shoulder strap.

“But it can’t be that bad if you’re not worried.”

“Actually, I was scared out of my ever-loving mind the first night I camped alone in the backcountry. I was so convinced wolves were coming after me, I nearly wet my sleeping bag.”

I huff out a surprised laugh. “And how did you get over that fear, pray tell?”

“Knowledge is a beautiful thing. I found out that there aren’t wolves in California.”

“There aren’t?”

“Apart from a few stray gray wolves that occasionally pass through, there’s only one known pack—the Shasta pack. They’re near the Oregon border.” He tests both shoulders. “How’s that feel now? Better?”

Yes, it actually does. Way better. The backpack feels more like an extension of me rather than a punishment. It’s still heavy, but I can handle it.

“Anyway,” he says. “We’re completely safe here, wolf-wise. Better chance of spotting a werewolf.”

“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you, Bram Stoker?”

“He wrote about vampires.”

“Same difference.”

“Do you enjoy being wrong?” he asks.

“I enjoy your sanctimonious defense of fictional creatures.”

He chuckles. “I will gladly defend all woodland-bound fictional creatures. Werewolves, bigfoots, and definitely any wendigos. But, hey. You’ll be happy to know that wendigos aren’t native to California either. So you don’t have to worry about a cannibalistic monster eating you for dinner in the middle of the night.”

“This has been a great talk,” I say. “Thanks so much for alleviating my fears.”

He smiles down at me—the warm, boyish smile I used to know and love so well—and my stomach flutters wildly. “I live to give you nightmares, Zorie.”

“Hey,” I complain good-naturedly. “Not nice.”

“Not at all,” he says, still smiling.

And I can still feel the warmth of that smile long after he turns around to catch up with the group.

*

A few minutes into the next leg of our hike, the unmarked trail bends upward, and we’re now battling an uphill climb. One that’s rocky and dry and uncomfortably warm as the temperature rises with the elevation. But halfway up, we enter a forest of red firs. Their branches are heavy with pinecones, and they help with shade . . . just not with the incline. Hiking on flat ground isn’t so bad; hiking on an incline with rocks poking the bottoms of your shoes is torment of the damned. I concentrate on Lennon’s bear bell. Its jingle, along with my own bell’s answering jangle, is strangely soothing, and this reassuring rhythm helps me put one foot in front of the other.