“What’s that?”
“Nothing.”
I grab my backpack. Grayson steps back so I can climb out of the car.
The mountains are glorious with their jagged shapes and towering size. I look up as I adjust the pack over my shoulders and wish I spent more time out here.
“My grandpa used to love coming up here,” I say, my tone somber. “He died when I was a little girl—ten, maybe. But before then, we used to come up here every Saturday and fool around.”
Grayson slings a backpack over his shoulder. “I used to come up here with my granddad too.”
“Did he ever take you to the little lake that’s …” I look around. “Maybe over there?” I nod to the area behind the ranger shack. “Maybe not, too. It’s been a while.”
He steps toward me, filling my nostrils with his scent. I try not to give it too much attention like I do in the bar. But it’s different out here. It’s stronger. More intentional. Sexier.
I try to block it out.
“There is a small lake over there,” he says. “And there’s another one beyond that peak.” He points in the opposite direction. “The water is crystal clear in the spring.”
“That sounds pretty.”
He glances down at me. “It is.”
Our gazes connect, snapping together like two puzzle pieces.
The grays in his eyes—a color I’ve always thought was like a cool slate, actually have tints of blue running through them.
“You ready?” he asks, gripping the straps at his shoulders like his life depends on it.
I nod.
He gives me a reluctant smile and then starts toward the trailhead.
“Four trails start here,” he says, nodding to the sign that explains that very thing. “Do you have a preference?”
“I’d like not to die.”
He chuckles. “I’m going to suggest taking this one toward Wildflower Falls. It can be busy, but I know an off-the-trail path that’s quieter and has a better view. It actually takes us to the lake you were talking about.”
“Aren’t you just a regular ole tour guide.”
He shakes his head as we head toward the trail.
Rocks and pine cones crunch under our shoes as we start the gradual ascent into the mountains. Despite Grayson saying the trail can be busy, it’s not. Not another person is within view.
Birds sing happily overhead, and Mother Nature shows off in the beautiful colors dotting the landscape.
It’s breathtaking.
“How often do you come out here?” I ask.
He grins. “A couple of days a week. More on the weekend, if I can.”
“Is this all you do for fun?”
“I guess.” He looks at me over his shoulder. “I like what I do at work. I like fixing cars and tinkering around with engines and tractors and shit. It doesn’t feel like work to me, and it’s fun too.”
Grayson steps to the side and pulls the end of a sticker bush with him. I pass through, giving him a nod of thanks as I go.
“That’s how I feel when I’m writing,” I tell him as he catches up to me. “It doesn’t feel like work.”
“Then that’s what you should do with your life.”
I smile. “See? That’s what I think. I’ve finally found the one thing that makes me feel … complete. The thing that feels like it was a part of me from the start.”
We walk quietly down the path and over tree roots and around potholes the size of my car. I take every opportunity to let my eyes feast on the man walking with me.
He’s as handsome and as sexy as he always is. But out here, there’s something calm about him, something centered, that brings him to a whole other level.
Grayson isn’t just the broody mechanic. Here, in this space, he’s the thoughtful, broody mechanic. He’s the inquisitive, shields-down, conversationalist broody mechanic. And I like it. Very much.
“So, these questions you have for me,” he says, “they have to do with your book?”
The easiness of the conversation fades away, floating on the breeze right along with Grayson’s question. In its place is the stress and frustration that I live with on a daily basis.
My shoulders tense. “Yeah. It does. Partly.”
He looks at me over his shoulder. “And the other part?”
“Men are just so … full of shit,” I say, keeping my eyes on the path. “Which is fine. Women are too half of the time.”
“Half?”
“Three-quarters?” I flip my eyes to him and laugh. “But I feel like I’m walking on the path of life, and it’s dangerous, you know? You’re supposed to do it as a team. I’m wearing my I Still Need A Partner shirt, but every time a man offers me his hand, he ends up saying I never wore that shirt—that he had no idea what I was looking for.”
Grayson nibbles on his bottom lip as he lets my words marinate.
“I get that we need to test out different hands in life,” I say. “You have to find the one that fits. But I don’t want to be the girl who tests out hands for ten years and then finally takes one that doesn’t really fit just because it’ll do, and then stumbles down the freaking path for the next sixty years because I’m halfway dragging the other person along.”
His lip pops free. “That’s a lot of metaphors.”
“Yeah. It is.” But I desperately don’t want to end up alone, and it seems the only thing I do have is metaphors.
Grayson stops ahead of me and points into the trees. “There’s a path through there that will wind us back to this one over by Wildflower Falls.” He looks around. “This path isn’t too busy. It’s up to you.”
A woman’s laughter makes its way from the area in front of us. And while we might just pass her and be done with it, getting to utilize Grayson’s willingness to listen and talk is something I’d like to do uninterrupted.
“Let’s take your secret path,” I tease.
He shakes his head but leads me through a small patch of weeds. Then, just as he promised, a lightly used trail appears out of nowhere.
“I think this was popular years ago,” he says as we hike up a small incline. “Then they monetized the Falls with rafts in the summer and all that bullshit, and everyone forgot about this trail and the smaller lake.”
“Lucky you.”
He shrugs.
“So, tell me what a woman should know about a man. What drives you? What motivates you? What makes men tick?” I ask.
He laughs. It’s a carefree sound that’s full of amusement and without judgment.
Hall-le-freaking-lujah.
“That would be like me asking you what makes women tick,” he says.
“And I’d answer that with shopping, pizza, and Jason Momoa.”
He rolls his eyes.
“It’s true,” I tell him. “I promise.”
“Well, men aren’t exactly complicated, but we can’t all be jammed into a box either.” He pauses. “Take Bryant, for example. Do you think the two of us are the same?”
“No. He’s nice. You’re an asshole.”
I flinch as the words tumble out of my mouth. It’s an asshole thing of me to say, and I start to apologize when Grayson laughs.