What was it about a tent that turned it into a freaking sweat lodge overnight? It was like the fibers trapped the sun inside, refusing to let it go and suffocating the occupant in stagnant, recycled air.
Despite stale beginnings, there was something undoubtedly serene about waking up immersed in nature. Tree branches cast shadows along the walls of the tent and played tricks with his eyes while noises outside proved the world was coming alive. Drew yawned, stretching his arms far above his head, his shoulders still tense from Wes and Keaton’s moving day.
Moving purposefully slow, he enjoyed the fact that no one was there telling him to pick up the pace. He emerged from the tent, duffle bag in hand determined to settle his first order of business. A shower. So maybe a campsite that offered hot showers wasn’t exactly roughing it either, but it was still a far cry from the jetted tubs he imagined were in the lodge.
Slipping his feet into flip-flops, he made sure his guitar was locked in his truck and headed toward the showers. The campsite next to his was vacant and he had yet to decide if it was a blessing or a disappointment. In his experience, he’d met some pretty cool people camping.
As he approached the showers, Scarlett emerged from the girl’s bathroom, fresh faced. She looked a thousand times better without all the paint on her face.
“Hey Drew.”
Drew smiled warmly. “Are you following me?”
She shook her head and laughed. “No. I’m actually staying at the lodge, but there is a waitlist for the bathroom so I came here instead. I’m impatient.”
Drew arched an eyebrow. “A waitlist huh? It must be a helluva bathroom. The lodge looks pretty slick, but—”
“It’s a busy hotel room,” she said. “There’s my mom, my sister, my brother. They all called dibs before me.”
“Ah.”
“Showering?”
It seemed Scarlett excelled at asking the questions with obvious answers.
“Yeah,” he said. “Then breakfast. Then maybe I’ll go exploring. You?”
“Family stuff,” she said. “I’m here for a family reunion.”
“That’s cool.”
“Yeah, I guess,” she allowed. “I think all of us know we should be grateful for each other but still have to work at tolerating each other. If that makes any sense.”
“Makes perfect sense,” he said. “I think it’s pretty normal.”
“I should go,” she said, pointing nowhere specifically. “My mother will send a search party if I’m not back soon. She’s hyper-paranoid.”
“Good to see you again, Scarlett.”
She grinned. “Yeah, you too.”
He took extra long to shower, standing under the stream until the water ran tepid and his stomach grumbled. Back at the campsite, he started a small fire and made some breakfast before cleaning up, grabbing his guitar and heading to the lake.
Copeland slipped out the door before anyone else was awake. She’d left a note telling them not to worry; she would be back by the afternoon. Beams of sunlight broke through the canopy of treetops casting iridescent rays all over the place. She took picture after picture, trying different angles and perspectives until her foot caught in one of the massive roots of a willow tree. She slipped and fell, tumbling down a small hill to the pebbled beach below.
She landed hard on her knees and when she stood, a sticky warmth ran down her leg. She looked down, mesmerized by a small trail of crimson left by the fresh wound. She reached down to touch it and winced, the salt from her fingers made it sting. She was about to feel sorry for herself when a beautiful sound carried through the air.
It was the melody of an acoustic guitar, played in a way Porter could only dream of. She followed the notes, trying to locate its whereabouts; when a smooth voice began to sing.
"It goes once, twice, third times a charm,
And I'm needing you in my arms.
It goes one, time, all it took to know,
That I'm never letting you go,"
She had no idea who the voice belonged to, but it was distinctly male and damn if she wouldn't volunteer herself to be the one he needed in his arms, sight unseen. Her camera hung lazily on her neck, the injury to her knee all but forgotten. The singing continued.
"Now I'm falling down,
Spinning in circles,
Here and now,
I'm lost and found, found, found."
She wanted to find him, although she was unsure what she'd do. Pressing forward, she rounded the bend and at first sight, she needed to remind herself to breathe. The owner of the voice sat perched on atop piece of driftwood, dressed in shorts and a black sleeveless tee with a geometric design on the front.
She stepped closer, careful to remain quiet.
The guitar was stretched across his lap, his hands gliding across the strings with great care and for an instant, Copeland was insanely jealous of that guitar. He had plugs in his ears, ink staining his skin and golden sun kissed hair in a state of wild disarray that suggested he liked to rake his hands through it.
He was perfect. Picture. Perfect.
She steadied herself and raised the camera. This moment was indescribably fascinating and she needed to freeze it. Capture it so it could be immortalized on film. Once she had him in the crosshairs of the viewfinder, there was no turning back.
"All the little things, all the little things you say,
All the little things, all the little things you do."
Snap. Snap. Snap.
"All the little things, all the little things you are,
That make you something else."
Her finger flew rapid fire on the shutter button because this was so candid, so personal and honest. She lost herself behind the lens until the singing abruptly stopped.
Busted. She lowered the camera to be met with ice blue eyes and an amused expression.
"You're going to have to delete that photo."
She held the camera against her chest, straightened her shoulders and tipped her chin up. "I can't do that."
"I'd appreciate it if you'd delete the photo."
"Are you a criminal or something?"
His pale, almost glacial eyes flashed with fire. She made him mad. She didn't care. That shot was going to be priceless. He'd have to pry the camera from her cold, dead hands.
"Am I a what?"
"A criminal," she repeated. "Is that why you don't want me to have your picture?"
He laughed. "No. I'm not a criminal. But I'm still going to need that photo."
"Well if you're not a criminal," she challenged. "Why do you need it?"
His expression was flat and impassive before the left side of his mouth curled up and he gave her the smallest hint of a smile. Gosh, she'd probably hand over her precious Leica at will to see that smile in all its glory.
"I guess I don't need it," he clarified. "But I want it, please."
"Sorry. No can do."
He set the guitar down and stood. Copeland's eyes traveled up to meet his. She wasn't going to budge.
He held out his hand, "Can I have the camera? I'll delete the photo."
She shook her head side to side and as a piece of hair stuck to her freshly glossed lips, she noticed his steady gaze faltering, surveying the length of her body.
He pointed to her leg. "You're bleeding."
She glanced down. The stupid gash was larger than she thought. She leaned down and tried to wipe it with her sleeve, her eyes still fixed on the mystery guy. "I'm fine."
"Will you let me help you?"
"I'm fine. Really. Thank you."
"I'm sure you are until it becomes all nasty and infected and then what? You'll think, 'I really wished I'd listened to that guy at the lake.'"
She once again scrutinized the injury. It was caked in dirt and off hand she could count three small pebbles partially imbedding themselves into her skin. Damn it. He was right. "It seems unlikely that you would carry a first aid kit with you.”
"My campsite is just up there." He gestured to the top of the hill she'd fallen down. She hadn't noticed a campsite but her focus was on the sky above before she'd bailed and found her focus on something else entirely.
"Okay," she allowed.
He nodded, grabbed his guitar and offered her his hand. "I'm Drew."