Roadside Attractions

Six

BLIND RIVER, ON

In the morning, I check the weather app on my phone. Upon seeing that it’s supposed to be blisteringly hot, I reach for the flowiest item of clothing in my suitcase—a yellow sundress I purchased while on one of the many Sunday trips Roman and I made to Kensington Market.

I adjust the straps on my shoulder, my fingers drawn to the necklace he gave me. I’m itching to take it off, but I’m intimidated by how final it would make everything feel. It doesn’t make any sense, how I can go from wanting to take a baseball bat to his kneecaps one second to wanting proof our relationship was real the next.

As usual, I’m awake far too early, so I take my time flat ironing my hair and painting my face. Makeup has always been a calming ritual for me. Some days, it’s like creating art—like dusting my cheeks with blush, brushing mascara on my lashes, and tapping highlighter onto my nose is the equivalent of putting the finishing touches on a canvas. Other days, not so much, but I’m grateful today is one of those artistic days.

I step back, appraising my appearance. This is the Stella I know, the one that makes me feel most like myself. Pin-straight black hair, warm, brown complexion paired with a dewy glow, always put together. Going on this trip may be entirely out of character for me, but moments like this make me feel like I haven’t totally abandoned who I am.

I check the time. Wyatt is probably awake by now. I’m in desperate need of caffeine and something to eat. For a few moments, I stare at my reflection, debating if I should fend for myself or let him come along. I suppose he did go out of his way to invite me to dinner last night.

Sighing heavily, I slide my feet into my sandals then grab my purse, slinging it over my shoulder. When I exit into the hallway, it’s quiet. Distantly, I hear the ping of the elevator as I knock on Wyatt’s door.

My knocking receives no response, so I try again.

Still nothing.

“Come on, Wyatt,” I mutter under my breath. “Get your lazy ass out of bed. We have shit to do.”

I rap on the door, louder this time, then press my ear to the wooden surface, listening for any signs of life. Seconds later, the door swings open, and I nearly catapult into Wyatt’s notably bare chest. I quickly right myself, stumbling backward.

The thick, white towel hugging Wyatt’s hips is all he wears as he grips the door, staring down at me expectantly. His black hair is damp, hanging over his forehead, and my eyes drift downward, trailing the droplets of water that run down his chest and toned stomach. He smells fresh, like shampoo and sandalwood.

I’m stunned into silence, my thoughts the equivalent of a blaring dial tone. I can’t seem to tear my eyes away from his exposed abdomen, and my pulse skyrockets when I think of Noor's words from last night—far too suggestive—when I told her Wyatt was going to drive me up the wall.

Up the wall, or against it?

My mouth dries. The movement of one of Wyatt’s eyebrows lifting draws my gaze back to his face. Fuck. I’m ogling him, and he knows it.

“Morning, sunshine,” he says, not bothering to hide the amusement in his low voice.

I blink, trying to focus, to remember why I’m even here. “Breakfast,” I blurt finally. Sweat forms on my forehead.

I swear I see his lips twitch. “What?”

“I’m gonna go find breakfast?” I try again, gesturing down the hall vaguely. “Or coffee? Or something? If you would like to join?” Every word out of my mouth sounds like a question, and I feel the intense urge to stick my head into a freezer.

“What’s the matter, Moore?” Slowly, he leans against the doorframe, crossing his sculpted arms over his chest— flexing —as he looks down at me, gaze transfixed. He’s totally milking this. “Feeling flustered?”

What an asshole .

The words are enough to send me into a full-body flush. “If you’re going to be a pompous ass, you can find your own breakfast,” I snap, whirling around and taking off down the hallway.

His satisfied chuckle carries after me as I stalk toward the elevator. I jab my finger at the down button. Once I’m safely inside, I lean against the wall, inhaling deeply. What the actual fuck was that? As an unfortunate side effect of being attracted to men, I’ve always found Wyatt painfully good-looking. But I’ve never reacted like that before. Not even those two times I caught him in far more compromising positions—hence me blocking his number.

I fully blame my best friend for planting that seed in my brain. But Wyatt certainly didn’t help the situation by answering the door looking like a literal sex god. I pinch the bridge of my nose. It’s far too early to be having salacious thoughts.

Outside the inn, Blind River is waking up in the morning light, and I head toward the beach. The breeze is cool closer to the water, and I’m extremely grateful for it, as it’s the closest I can get to sticking my head in a freezer. I stroll down the sidewalk, listening to the distant sound of waves hitting the shore while the gulls cry overhead.

Blind River is small, yet charming, a presumably pleasant spot to spend a quiet summer—provided you don’t come during Blues Fest. I watch as shopkeepers open up for the day, neighbours chat over wooden fences, and lawnmowers glide over green grass. It’s been so long since I’ve gotten out of the city, and as much as I’d prefer not to be stranded here, the change of pace is oddly nice.

I stumble across a tiny coffee shop close to the lake and order myself a black coffee and a croissant. After a moment of hesitation, I get the same thing for Wyatt, grabbing a couple creamers and packets of sugar. Apparently, I do get breakfast for pompous asses after all. I take a seat on the patio outside, letting the breeze toy with my hair, delaying my return to the inn.

I’m not exactly sure how to face Wyatt after what just happened. A wave of heat washes over me again at the memory. God, I was practically drooling . I’m going to murder Noor when I get back to Toronto.

I sit outside the coffee shop a bit longer, staring out at the vast expanse of water and picking at my croissant, resisting the urge to check my work email. In a move I’ve never actually done before, I signed out of it immediately after leaving. Anyone who tries to reach me will receive a canned “out of office” response. Without work, Roman, and Noor, I don’t know what to do with myself.

After finishing the pastry and downing half of my coffee, I finally head back to the inn. Wyatt’s drink is probably cold by now, but it’s the sentiment that counts.

This time, when he answers the door, he’s fully dressed, sporting a t-shirt with a picture of The Killers and a black pair of shorts, thank ever-loving Christ. He opens his mouth to greet me, but I shove the coffee and croissant into his hands, cutting him off before slipping past him into the room.

“Hello to you too,” he says sarcastically, looking down at the items in his hands. His eyebrows raise. “Thanks. I thought my pompous ass had to—”

“Can we stop talking about your ass?” I take a delicate seat on the edge of his bed, my hands under my thighs. “Were you able to call the mechanic?” If I bulldoze my way through this conversation, we don’t have to address how I acted earlier.

“About that,” he says, voice flat, before taking a bite out of his croissant. “I have some bad news. The car won’t be ready until tomorrow morning.”

I close my eyes and deflate.

“On the plus side,” he says brightly, “as Marty so eloquently pointed out, this is a great place to get stuck. There are all kinds of things to do.”

I blink at him. “I’ll be in my room.”

“Stella Moore, always the buzzkill,” Wyatt teases, tossing back some of his coffee. “We might as well have fun while we’re here.”

“Don’t worry,” I say, standing up from the bed and straightening out the skirt of my dress. “I’ll have loads of fun without you.”

I’m almost to the door when he blurts, “I rented us a canoe.”

I halt in my tracks, turning to face him with a bewildered laugh. “I’m sorry, you did what ?”

“You heard me.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I tell him. “I’m not getting into a canoe with you, Wyatt.”

He takes my place on the edge of the bed, shrugging. “You’re not my first choice for a partner, but I don’t wanna go by myself.”

I scoff, brushing my hair over my shoulder. “Why do you have to canoe at all? Have you forgotten why we’re here and what we’re doing? The only reason I came along is because we have a common goal. I’m not trying to be your. . . canoe buddy .”

Wyatt lifts an eyebrow in challenge. “No, Moore, I actually haven’t forgotten the way you forced yourself into my car yesterday, effectively crashing my solo road trip.”

Okay, he’s definitely exaggerating. “I didn’t force myself into—”

“The least you can do is make this trip semi-enjoyable for me.”

Clamping my mouth shut, I stare at him fiercely. I don’t do outdoors or physical labour. I like to stay inside, with my technology and my books, and my shelter from the blazing sun. And I certainly don’t go out of my way to entertain men I can barely tolerate at best.

If Wyatt thinks there’s a chance in hell I’m getting in that canoe, he is sorely mistaken.

?

It turns out there is a chance in hell.

Because twenty minutes later, I stand on the shore, attempting to cross my arms over my puffy life jacket, watching dubiously as Wyatt drags a canoe toward the water.

Somehow, the wires between my brain and my body must have gotten seriously crossed, because there’s really no explanation as to how I ended up agreeing to this stupid water escapade. Against my will, my gaze lingers on Wyatt’s arms, his muscles straining as he inches the canoe closer to its final destination.

Maybe there’s one tiny reason.

I snap myself out of it.

Stop. It. Stella.

The sun beats down on my shoulders, making the water glisten. I shield my eyes with my hand, surveying the shoreline and the craggy rocks a short distance away. I spot a few kayaks floating, and a jogger treks along the water with their dog. It’s a beautiful day, but I’d rather admire it from inside, preferably in my room, sipping an iced latte, far away from Wyatt.

He looks up at me, his hands steadying the boat. “You coming?”

“I’ll supervise from here.”

“Come on, Moore,” he goads. “Have a bit of fun for once in your goddamn life.”

“I like my life just fine,” I inform him. “It’s comfortable.”

“Comfortable is boring .” He gestures for me to come closer with his chin. “Live a little. Hop in the canoe.”

My eyes flicker to the gentle waves caressing the sand. The water is calm, inviting. I look at Wyatt again, biting the inside of my cheeks, and he raises his eyebrows expectantly. Fuck it. I heave out a sigh, sliding my feet out of my sandals and bending down to scoop them up. I ignore Wyatt’s look of triumph as I trudge down the beach. After tossing my sandals into the canoe with a clatter, I brace myself on the edge of the boat, praying my dress won’t snag as I climb in.

The canoe wobbles as I make my way toward the bench. Wyatt steadies the boat, waiting until I sit down to push it farther out onto the water. When we’re a reasonable distance from the shore, he climbs in, sitting behind me, facing the lake. He passes me an oar, and I try to refrain from grumbling as I take it.

I dip it into the blue-green water as a gentle breeze lifts my hair off my shoulders. Wyatt begins to paddle, and for a second, it feels like we’re going somewhere—until I realize we’re drifting in a slow, pathetic circle.

“You need to paddle on the opposite side of me,” Wyatt says.

“I started paddling first!”

“Okay, well, now you need to start paddling on the other side.”

I roll my eyes, doing as he says, and we glide away from the shore. We go on in silence for a while. I try to relax, listening to the sound of the oars splashing into the water and the distant laughter of the couple on a kayak a short distance away. I take in the way the water sparkles in the sunlight, peering over the edge as the sand below becomes less and less visible.

I’m transported to the summer camp I went to when I was ten, the only other time I’ve been in a canoe. My grandma had wanted me to get out of Toronto, to give me an escape from our cramped apartment in The Junction, and I was sent to spend a week in Muskoka. I hadn’t liked it all that much—being forced to spend so much time with obnoxious campers, doing far too many outdoor activities—but the canoe I could handle. It was quiet. Easy.

“See, this isn’t so bad, is it?” Wyatt says.

I stay silent, not wanting to admit that he might be a little bit right.

One positive to this experience is that with Wyatt sitting behind me, I don’t have to look at him. I don’t know what’s wrong with me—it’s not like it’s my first time seeing him. Usually, all it takes is him opening his mouth to ruin my suspension of disbelief, but for some godforsaken reason, it’s not working today.

“You know, this reminds me of going to Roman’s family cottage,” he muses. “Except this time, I’m in a canoe with someone who hates me.”

“Roman’s family has a cottage?”

“I see we’re ignoring the second part of my statement,” he remarks dryly. “Yeah, Roman’s family has a lot of things. We spent a couple summers there as kids. Haven’t been since things turned sour between them.”

Once again, I’m grateful that we’re not facing each other. The fact that there’s a whole-ass cottage Roman neglected to tell me about, a whole-ass family he never let me meet, stings like crazy, as much as I wish it didn’t.

“He barely even acknowledged that he had parents,” I mutter.

Wyatt is silent for a few beats. “I think they would’ve liked you,” he says quietly. I stiffen at the sound of his unexpected sincerity. “It’s a shame you never had the chance to meet them.”

“I guess he did me a favour,” I say, my voice even. “This way, when he left me, I only had to lose one person.”

He makes a noise of dissent. “Let’s not give him too much credit. What he did fucking sucked. There’s no sugarcoating it. It never sat right with me that he didn’t share his past with you. You didn’t deserve that. You deserved the truth.”

“Too late for that now,” I murmur.

Suddenly, this whole thing feels intimate—relying on the low timbre of his voice without being able to read his face, teetering on the edge of acknowledging how hurt I am. How hurt we both are. A part of me wants to close my eyes and lean into it.

But I’m smart enough to remember that Wyatt will never be a safe place to land.

“Anyway, enough about that,” I say, switching gears. “My arms are getting tired, and I don’t want to go too far out.”

“It’s been like five minutes.”

“And?”

“I rented this thing for the whole afternoon!”

“Okay, fine, then drop me off at the dock.”

Wyatt scoffs. “Are you serious?”

“I’m absolutely serious,” I say, glancing at him over my shoulder. “It’s hot out, my arms are sore, and I would like to remove myself from this excursion.”

He looks thoroughly unimpressed, lips pressed together, gaze fiery beneath his ball cap. A jolt runs down my spine, unbidden. Finally, he concedes, dipping his oar into the water on the other side of the boat. “Well, I’m not the kind of guy who’d keep a girl trapped in a canoe.”

We do a slow one-eighty, heading back toward the dock. I’m aware that I’m acting ridiculous, and that’s precisely why I think it’s better if I have some time alone. Our interaction this morning rewired my brain, and not in a good way.

The dock is in sight when Wyatt abruptly pulls his oar out of the water. I pause, turning around. His arms are folded over his chest stubbornly, and he’s laid the paddle across the boat.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Am I really so horrible that you can’t even stand to be in a canoe with me for longer than five minutes?”

“I never said you were horrible,” I say.

“No, you actually said I was a pompous ass. I’m paraphrasing.”

I exhale, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. “It was a throwaway comment. Sorry it touched a nerve.”

He laughs shortly. “What an apology. You’re really something.”

“What was that you said before about trapping a girl in a canoe?” I ask, giving him a flat look. “I’d like to go back to shore now.”

“Maybe we need to stay out here a little longer,” he says, gesturing to the lake. “Work on our conflict resolution.”

And with that, all of my patience goes out the window. “Wyatt,” I say, smiling sweetly, “if you don’t start paddling, I’m going to take your oar and shove it where the sun doesn’t shine.”

“Why is your mind always so violent?” he mutters, picking up the oar and dipping it into the water again.

I brace myself to stand as we reach the dock. “You should be happy I’m going back to the beach. You didn’t even want me to come on this trip in the first place.”

“And yet you came anyway. Now that you’re here, you might as well try to enjoy it.” He pauses as we slow to a stop. I rise to my feet, and he narrows his eyes, watching me. “You’re scared,” he concludes.

I make a face. “What would I be scared of?”

“That’s what I’m wondering. Are you scared of the water, or are you just afraid of getting wet?”

The words are entirely innocent, yet at the sound of them, my mind floods with the image of him from this morning, towel low on his hips, rivulets of water charting a path on his abdomen. A path that looks like it’s meant to be followed by fingers. Heat invades my body once more, making my palms sweat, and I take a jerky step away from him. His eyes widen.

“Stella, don’t—” he calls, reaching out for me, but it’s too late.

With an unflattering shriek, I flail my arms, launching myself over the side of the canoe. Instantly, I’m submerged underwater, and the cold shocks my system, a stark contrast to the blaring heat of the sun. It takes a few seconds to gather my bearings, for my life jacket to guide me toward the surface.

I’m so humiliated that I briefly consider staying underwater.

But instead, I resurface with a gasp, pushing my hair out of my face. The skirt of my dress fans around me as I tread water, breathing hard.

“Stella!” Wyatt’s hands are gripping the edge of the boat. “Are you okay? Can you swim?”

“Of course I can swim!” I snap. At my tone, he seems to relax.

“You’re okay,” he concludes simply.

A mix of anger and mortification stews beneath my skin. He reaches out, offering to help me back into the canoe. I ignore him, turning away and heading in the direction of the beach, willing my arms to pull me through the water faster.

“Where are you going?” Wyatt asks, bewildered, though I can hear the hints of laughter he seems to be working extremely hard to suppress.

When he receives no response, I hear his oar hitting the water, paddling frantically to catch up with me. “Moore,” he calls out, laughter breaking through this time.

“I’m going back to the inn,” I shout. “Go away! ”

“I have your shoes!” he protests.

I’m close enough to the shore to stand now, my toes sinking into the wet sand. I propel myself forward until the water is only waist-high. Feeling waterlogged and miserable, I remove my life jacket and trudge toward the beach.

Behind me, Wyatt reaches the shore too, and the canoe scrapes against the sand as he drags it onto the beach. I dump the life jacket on the sand, chest rising and falling with exertion. My eyes feel sticky with wet mascara, and my dress clings to my legs.

“ Stella .” He latches onto my arm and turns me to face him. There’s humour written all over his features as he peers at me. I want to wipe the amused smile from his face. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” I jab a finger into his chest. “Don’t you dare laugh.”

“I would never,” he remarks, a blatant lie.

I take a step back, pulling out of his grasp with a glare. He heads back to the canoe before returning with a towel in hand, passing it to me wordlessly. I assume he’s keeping his mouth shut to save me from his onslaught of laughter. I snatch the towel, blotting at my face, cringing when it comes back stained black and brown with makeup.

From now on, I’m sticking to waterproof. You never know when you might accidentally throw yourself out of a canoe.

As I attempt to dry off, I don’t miss the way Wyatt’s eyes linger on me, lips parting at the sight of my dress plastering itself to my damp skin. He clears his throat and turns away.