Click, whirrrrrr. Click, whirrrrrr. Snap.
Twigs and leaves crunch under approaching footsteps that get closer by the second. I glimpse a gray T-shirt as its wearer passes by a gap in the brush and pauses, and then the camera comes to life again. Common sense and reason says to keep walking in the opposite direction, and yet I remain still, scarcely daring to breathe.
Alfie's ears perk up and he sniffs the air. He pauses for a second and tilts his head, then he lets loose with a loud bark.
"Thanks for blowing our cover," I murmur at him.
There's more rustling of tree branches and then a person emerges from the brush. Whatever I expected, it wasn't this towering teenage guy who appears to be about my age. Even though he has a camera slung around his neck on a leather strap and was taking photos just now, I'm ninety-nine percent certain he isn't a paparazzo. My shoulders relax.
Some people would say I'm paranoid to think the paps would follow me to another country and find me in the middle of nowhere, but the biggest lesson I've learned during my time in the spotlight is to never underestimate what they're capable of, what they'll do for money, and how much the tabloids will pay them. Whoever this probably-not-a-paparazzo, likely-a-teenage-local is, he stops when he sees me and nods in my direction.
"Good morning," he calls out.
"Hey," I reply, watching as he plucks a piece of a leaf from his golden-brown waves of hair. Being an L.A. girl, I expect this exchange to be the end of it and for him to continue on his way. That's what happens most of the time when I encounter a neighbor while out walking Alfie at home, if we acknowledge one another at all.
Apparently that's not how things work at this lake. "You're not from here, right?" he asks.
How did he pick that up in the approximately thirty seconds it's been since he emerged on to the road? I'm not wearing a neon sign that says I'm from Hollywood, and there's nothing about my clothing or makeup-free face that shouldn't blend in with cottage life. My suspicions about his camera and the possibility of him working for the tabloids come creeping back.
"What do you mean?" I keep my tone casual.
"I'm pretty sure I know everyone at this lake, and I've never seen you before. Did you walk over from Loon?"
"Loon?" I repeat, confused.
"Loon Lake." He examines me more closely. I stare back at him, noticing the dark amber color of his eyes. "I'll take that as no. Are you visiting someone here?"
It's hard to tell if he's truly curious or just being nosy, but something in his expression is genuine and friendly. Whatever it is disarms me in spite of myself.
"No. My mom and I are staying at a cottage here."
His mouth twitches. "Cottage."
He's ribbing me about something, but I don't get the joke. "What about it?"
A merry glint dances in his eyes. "We call it a camp around here. You 'cottage' people automatically give away not being from this part of the province."
"Oh really?" I put the hand that's not holding Alfie's leash on my hip. "Where do you think I'm from?"
He contemplates me for a moment, pressing his lips together. We don't break eye contact once. "Back east or down south," he finally answers. "Probably the GTA, though."
"What's the GTA?"
My question elicits a chuckle. "Greater Toronto Area. So I'll guess that means you're from out west."
"You could say that." It's true, after all. Los Angeles is about as west coast as it gets in North America.
"B.C.?" he guesses.
"Nope."
"Alberta?" he tries again.
"Do you always interrogate people like this?"
"Only people who seem interesting and worth the time," he replies. "Am I right about Alberta?"
"You aren't even close."
"Wait!" His face lights up.
"Waiting," I tell him. There's a look of recognition on his face that makes me a little nervous. Was that "wait" as in he's realized I seem familiar, or something else?
"You're staying at the Wilson's camp, aren't you? You're one of the Californians." He says "Californians" like he's announcing the name of an old Saturday Night Live sketch. If we talk again after today, I'll need to get him to stop doing that.
"You got me. Is there a Nextdoor for lake gossip or something?" I pray there is not, and that no other information about Mom and me has made its way around this lake ahead of our arrival.
"Mrs. Wilson texted my mom to let her know someone would be staying at their camp in case you needed something. My family's camp is the next one over."
"So we're neighbors?"
"Yup, and I'm out here for the rest of the summer with my parents and sister. You're stuck with running into us for however long you're staying." His lips curve up into a grin.
I have to be jet-lagged from yesterday, because my mind goes blank for a few seconds and all I can concentrate on is the dimple that's appeared in his cheek and how real his smile seems.
"I'm Hunter, by the way." He extends his hand. The motion, his words, and the touch of his fingers against mine jar me from my haze.
"Deni."
The second syllable has barely slipped out when I realize what I've done and want to kick myself. I should have made up a different name. Hunter, his family, and who knows who else around here already know I'm from California. I'm assuming Mom had to share her full and real name with this Mrs. Wilson lady to arrange the cottage—correction, camp—rental and payment. If I want a quiet summer to try and heal and time away from prying eyes, I have to limit what clues are out there about who I am.
"What else did Mrs. Wilson tell your mom?" I try to sound unconcerned.
"Wouldn't you like to know?" Hunter waggles his eyebrows and gives me a sly look.
"Well, yeah. I do like to know what someone knows about me when I meet them."
"Do you meet many people who already know a lot of things about you?" I think he's teasing me, but I can't be sure.
"Not before today," I lie. Well, it's sort of a lie. The people I meet usually think they know a lot about me, when what they really know is Cayden Indigo trivia. "I think it's my turn for a question," I say before he can ask me something else. It's time to shift the focus to him.
"Ask me anything you want to know."
He sounds as though he means this, so I jump on what I've been wondering about since I heard him snapping photos in the woods. "What's the camera for?"
"Taking pictures." Hunter seems amused.
Great. It figures he would play the part of Captain Obvious. "Well, yes. Pictures of what?"
"Wildlife and the outdoors. I got some great shots of a blue jay just now. Want to see?"
"Sure," I answer.
He takes the camera in his hands and presses a few buttons, then removes the strap from his neck. "Check this out."
Hunter passes the camera to me. An up-close photo of a blue jay perched on a tree branch is on its small screen.
"This is a great shot," I tell him, and it is. The framing, the angle, and the blurred background make the photo look professional.
"Thanks. Keep going, there's one at the end where I caught it in flight."
I press a button to scroll through the remaining photos. All of them are photographs of the blue jay, which puts to rest any remaining fears I had about what he was up to with the camera. Hunter wasn't taking photos for the tabloids, but he is a fantastic photographer.
"These are amazing." I hand the camera back to him.
"I have an Instagram with a ton more of these that I've had for a couple of years."
"I'd love to see it," I say, and then I remember the situation with my phone. "Um, when my mom gives me my phone back, I mean. She's making me stay off of social media while I'm here."
"That sounds scandalous. What did you do to get your phone taken away?" He looks intrigued and as though he's waiting for a juicy story.
I can't tell him what actually led to the phone ban, so I decide to play it down. "Nothing, really. She thinks I spend too much time on it and wants me to enjoy all of this, I guess." I wave my hand at our surroundings.
"I don't know." He's definitely teasing me now. "I think there's more to the story. Don't worry, I'll get it out of you."
"There isn't, I swe—"
WOOF!
Without warning, Alfie tugs his leash out of my hand and makes a break for something he's spotted up the road.
"Alfie!" I run after him.
Hunter also takes off after him, calling his name. Alfie continues barreling down the road, then abruptly stops, sniffing at something along the side of the road. He tips his head to the side, watching carefully, then creeps toward something I can't see.
Hunter reaches Alfie first and grabs his leash. Alfie doesn't seem to notice, since he's still intent on watching something in the grass.
I catch up with them a second or two later and thank Hunter for catching Alfie. He hands the leash to me and I wind it around my hand a couple of times, now realizing I have to keep a careful eye on my dog out here. It turns out Alfie went bounding after a toad, which has made its escape to the inside of a hollowed-out log he can't reach.
"Has he ever seen a toad before?" Hunter asks.
"Probably not," I admit. "He has seen a gecko once or twice, though, and he loves to chase them."
"I can't say I've seen a gecko here, but wait until he spots the loons and ducks. My old dog was a tiny terrier mix who used to swim halfway across the lake to get at them."
"Is there anything else I should watch out for with him?" It's probably better to start a list now so I can stay alert.
"Bears."
I realize he's serious and start to ask what kind of bears are around here, when I'm interrupted by an impatient yell from behind us.
"Come ON, Hunter! Mom says we have to go now."
I turn around to see who the voice yelling at Hunter belongs to, but not before I catch his exasperated look.
"I'll be right there," he calls back to a petite girl who stands on the road, tapping her foot. She resembles Hunter, but looks to be a couple of years younger than him.
"Gotta go?" I ask.
"Sisters." He shrugs. "She wants something from the store, and our mom wants me to drive her. Want to come with us?"
"My mom might freak out if I disappear." This is the truth. She hates it when I take off somewhere with Sawyer and don't tell her, and she's known Sawyer and his family as long as I have. I'd probably be grounded for life if I disappear with Hunter ten minutes after meeting him.
"I get it. Guess I'll catch you later, Cali." He leans over to scratch Alfie's head.
"Deni," I correct him.
"Nope, Cali. Like California."
"No one calls it 'Cali,'" I inform him.
"I do, and that's what I'm calling you." There's a mischievous twinkle in his eye as he begins walking down the road to where his sister is waiting. He starts whistling when he gets a few yards away.
I don't know what to make of that, or of him, or that he's already given me a nickname and I'm still watching him go when I should be turning in the other direction and heading back to my cottage.
Maybe Mom was right about coming here. This summer of a normal existence, away from the stage and the memories and everyone who knows me, seems to be exactly what I need.