Wanting a Family Man (Raven’s Cove #3)

Chapter Twelve

T rystan was going nuts where Cloe was concerned.

He was still stifling a groan of denial that the boys had interrupted them yesterday, when he and Cloe had been kissing in Ocean Falls.

What a kiss. What a fucking kiss. He couldn’t remember ever being that turned on by a simple—complex, consuming—kiss.

Or so eaten by guilt afterward.

He had thought calling out their attraction would do something to dilute it, but if anything, it amplified the undercurrents between them. Even as he was trying to be careful and respectful of her, he kept seeing through her brave face to the fact he was hurting her. She was trying to be so tough and resilient, and she was nothing but bruises and heartbreak on the inside.

This morning, he’d already been awake and aching when he’d heard her rise. He’d lain there promising himself to keep his distance and opened his door to the chilly morning air, trying to cool the heat in his blood.

The next thing he knew, he’d been calling her through his cabin to watch the orcas.

He kept telling himself it had been altruistic. She was still very raw from everything she’d been through. He knew the healing power of nature and had wanted to give her that unique experience.

But it had been more selfish than that. Maybe he couldn’t touch her and kiss her and do all the erotic, wicked things that insisted on infiltrating his thoughts, but he had reveled in standing close to her and hearing her breath catch and watching the light of discovery come over her face.

Cracking dumb jokes and watching her eat up photos of Storm was fun, too. The whole time she’d been looking at his phone, he’d been thinking about how the Storm Ridge was empty and her thighs looked so smooth and he bet her bra was one of those barely there half-tank-top things that made him wonder why a woman bothered wearing it at all.

He’d forgotten about the photo of her sister, though.

Ambushing her with that had been a clumsy move. Holding her while she cried it out had been heaven and hell. He hated that she was hurting, but he loved how she fit so well against him.

He managed to push his hunger to the back of his mind while he helped the boys after they came aboard. Stefan was excited to pull out the wildlife identification book and confirm it had been a harbor seal he’d spotted while kayaking.

A short while later, Elodie came back with Johnny, wanting to relax with her book. “Brielle wants to kayak, but I’m pooped. Johnny said you might be willing to go with her?”

“Me?” Cloe pointed at herself. “I’ve never done it.”

“Brielle does it all the time,” Elodie assured her. “She’ll show you and do most of the work.”

“And Johnny will come out with the Zodiac if you get into trouble. Wear your life preserver.” Trystan encouraged her with a nod.

“You’re really going to pay me to go have fun? Okay.” She headed out and he kept an eye on her once she was out paddling along the shoreline with Brielle, laughing and pointing. She looked relaxed when they came back aboard in the late afternoon.

By then, everyone was returning. Some guests were ready for a cocktail; others went below for a nap.

“How do you even call this a job?” Cloe asked him once she’d changed into dry clothes and was setting out happy hour snacks.

He refrained from pointing out this was still new for her. Also, this was a very nice batch of guests. They weren’t all like this. He didn’t want to burst her bubble or slag her sister, so he didn’t mention that Tiffany’s aim to bring a bunch of rich folks into the area looked good on paper, but it was a double-edged sword. Sure, it was an opportunity to educate people about this unique environment, but it also attracted entitled assholes who expected to be catered to.

“Who wants to check the crab traps with me?” Johnny asked, drawing several guests to the rail, the boys among them.

There was lots of excitement when the first trap held five. Johnny showed them how they measured each one with the calipers and threw back the two females. The second trap had three more keepers. Cloe took photos with everyone holding a crab in each hand before Johnny took the shellfish to the stern where he would discreetly kill and clean them before they were steamed for dinner.

On their way to their anchorage for the night, Trystan paused for guests to take a photo of the cairn that marked where Sir Alexander Mackenzie had arrived in 1793.

“He’s our Lewis and Clark, a fur trader with the North West Company and the first European to cross the Rockies to the Pacific north of present-day Mexico.” The water was choppy so they didn’t go ashore. Besides, “Once we anchor for the night, a member of the Nuxalk Nation will take you on a short walk to see some petroglyphs and tell you more about that expedition.”

The interpretive walk was hosted by his mother’s neighbor’s fifteen-year-old son, Gordon. His family had been coming to this fishing camp since before Egypt began building pyramids. At first, Gordon had been shy and talked too fast, but he was gaining confidence and really didn’t need Trystan’s moral support anymore. Trystan went along now because some guests liked to hang back and take photos while others were quicker to move to the next point of interest.

Cloe was an eager student at the front of the pack, listening attentively to Gordon explain why the route that Alexander Mackenzie had followed was already well traveled.

“Indigenous people had a network of trade routes that were often called grease trails because they were used to exchange hides and meat and dried berries for the coastal tribes’ ooligan grease.”

“What’s oo…?” Stefan asked.

“Ooligans are a skinny little fish.” Gordon held his fingers about eight inches apart. “Sometimes the explorers called them candlefish because they were so fatty, they could be dried and strung on a wick to be burned like a candle.”

“Is that true?” Stefan was skeptical, probably because he had an older brother who regularly fed him horseshit.

I feel ya, kid , Trystan thought.

“It is.” Gordon nodded. “They’re the first fish to return to our streams in the spring. That made them very special. After a long winter, when other food was running low, the Native people finally had something to eat. They salted them and dried them and smoked them—”

“Smoke? Like…” Karl put two fingers to his lips as though drawing on a cigarette.

“No.” Gordon chuckled. “They used the smoke from a fire to cure it, so it would last a long time. And they rendered the fat into the grease that was always highly valued because it kept well and could be used for cooking and preserving and medicine. That’s what this stink box is for.” He moved to show the vat and described how the fish was fermented before it was boiled so the fat could be skimmed off.

“Why is it called a stink box?” someone asked.

“Why do you think?” Gordon pinched his nose and everyone laughed.

“What does it taste like?” someone else asked.

“It’s fish oil so—” Gordon shrugged. “Fishy. I like it. I would eat it every day like butter on toast, but the ooligan runs have declined. Now we save it for potlatch ceremonies.”

That led to questions about the importance of potlatch, which was a ceremonial gathering for First Nations up and down the coast, forming the bedrock of culture, both for the individual tribes and through sharing of songs, stories, dance, gift giving, feasts and celebration. In that way, it had always been an important form of diplomacy and governance, strengthening relationships between the different tribes. The fact it had been outlawed by the Canadian government for over sixty years said everything about how important it was.

When Gordon reached the petroglyph of faces carved into a rock, he shared the story that belonged to his family, describing how his ancestors had come to live here.

Trystan listened intently, even though he’d heard this one many times. It was respectful to listen, but it centered him to hear the stories that Gordon chose to share. It reminded him of his own family’s stories, which had similar supernatural elements.

His childhood had been one of contrasts and confusion, hearing stories like this from his grandmother and aunts and uncles, then learning something else entirely from his White teachers.

He still got caught up in the linear and what could be measured and what was rational, but he also believed in things that were abstract and cyclical and connected in unseen ways. He didn’t have to know the date of an ice age or the great flood to believe it had happened. He’d observed enough wildlife to know that animals communicated with each other, outside their own species, even if it wasn’t in full English sentences. That made a story about an animal calling a human “brother” and helping to save his life as real as anything a news anchor might convey.

“My grandmother told me that story every time we came here to fish camp.” Gordon was wrapping up. His grandmother had passed on some years ago, but Gordon explained how repeating the story kept him connected to her and kept all his ancestors alive. Otherwise, how could that story still exist? Gordon hoped to one day tell his own grandchildren so they could tell their grandchildren, keeping their family alive well into the future.

This was the piece that was missing between Trystan and his flesh and blood brothers. The history they shared was not a deeply rooted tree with branches that stretched out across millennia. Wilf Fraser had snapped it off at the trunk, never saying anything good about his own childhood. How could Trystan be proud to call himself a Fraser when Wilf hadn’t been proud of himself?

By that same token, would Storm one day look at her own personal history and see nothing but a clear-cut of stumps?

People murmured their thanks and Trystan squeezed the young man’s shoulder, bolstering him because it wasn’t easy to open yourself up so completely to strangers, but he was becoming good at it.

A few people had questions so Trystan left Gordon to answer them while he walked to the beach with Cloe. She was quiet, brow furrowed in contemplation.

“Okay?” he asked her.

“Maybe I should try to find my father,” she said pensively. “I’ve never thought of a family history as something that goes both forward and backward.” The lowering sun was filtering through the trees, speckling her light brown cheeks. “My mom lost her parents before she could reconcile with them. She was still really young, which is why she was kind of lost herself. I think I’ve always identified with that. Kind of a distorted belief that that was how I’m like her. Like it was a connection I didn’t want to break, if that makes sense, even though I’ve always wanted to know more about my father’s family. I didn’t want to impose on him, though, especially because his history doesn’t feel like something I’m entitled to lay claim to, if I haven’t lived it.” She chewed her lip briefly.

Trystan was very familiar with that internal friction of coming from two very different cultures.

“It would be up to him to decide how much of his history to share with you.”

“If he knew I existed,” she said, still wearing that thoughtful frown. “One of the reasons I was so determined to find Storm and be part of her life is so she can ask me about Tiffany. But also because if I didn’t know what happened to her, I would always wonder about her and worry. I never once thought… What if I’m a piece of the story in my father’s family? A piece they don’t even know is missing.”

“You are.”

“I’m not used to thinking of myself as”—she swallowed—“important. Or being part of something that stretches…beyond being alone.”

How was he not supposed to want to hug her when she said something like that?

His arm twitched, but he noticed Brielle was waiting ahead of them on the trail. She had questions about their day in Bella Coola tomorrow so he stopped to talk with her while Cloe moved ahead to help Johnny set up for the crab dinner.

*

Bella Coola, or Q’umk’uts’, as it was called by the Nuxalkmc, was a tiny town situated where the Bella Coola River finished snaking through the mountains and hit the inlet that connected to the same channel they’d been following around King Island, eventually pouring into the Pacific Ocean. The town could be accessed by air, ferry, or the notorious forty-three kilometers of hairpin turns known as the Hill.

The Storm Ridge had got underway before Cloe had started breakfast, since everyone had big days planned. The guests had the option of a guided kayak tour, which the honeymooners and the New Yorkers were taking. Brielle and Elodie were going on a day hike that included an art walk in town and an interpretive visit to a number of totem poles. The Germans were heading out on a river float in hopes of spotting bears fishing in the streams.

“What do we do while everyone is on shore?” Cloe asked Trystan, bringing him what was left of the coffee as she was cleaning up breakfast. “Do we wait here on the boat? Or…?”

“Johnny and I usually visit family. His brother lives here and I see my mom. Thanks.” He sipped the coffee, saluted her with it, then set it in the cupholder.

“Oh, it’s pretty!” She was charmed as she glimpsed the dark green mountains sleeping against the shoreline while granite peaks glowed in the distance, illuminated by the morning sun. The water was a placid, silty green, the sky streaked with frayed-cotton clouds. “It’s bigger than I expected.” There was a veritable forest of masts tied up at the wharf.

“It’s probably the best shopping you’ll come across without going to Vancouver Island. There are some nice art galleries, but it’s no Rodeo Drive.”

“Ha. Thanks, but I can’t afford anything other than toothpaste until I’ve saved up a few paychecks. I’ll stay on board and read a book or something.”

“You can come with me if you want.”

“To your mom’s?” Her insides grew wobbly.

“Sure.” He shrugged as if it was no biggie. Why would it be?

“Okay. Thanks.” She went back to the galley to finish cleaning up, trying not to overthink his invitation.

The air of anticipation was infectious, though. The guests were excited for their adventures and were already on deck as they tied up. Their day-trip shuttle drivers were waiting for them. Cloe handed out lunch bags and waved them off like a sitcom mom sending her children to their first day of school. Then she did her housekeeping chores while Trystan refueled and Johnny scrubbed all the decks.

When everything was shipshape, they walked to the parking lot. Trystan opened the door on a pickup truck that was so old and weathered, it would have been a classic if it had been restored to its showroom glory. He waved for Cloe to climb through. Johnny was already coming in the other side.

“Is this yours?” Cloe asked him.

“My stepfather’s. He leaves it here for me.”

“Unlocked?” She wiggled to the middle of the bench, noting the key was in the ignition. “What if someone steals it?”

“She’s so cute.” Johnny shared a look with Trystan.

“Adorable,” Trystan agreed.

“There are only two thousand people in this valley,” Johnny explained. “If someone steals this truck, it’s because they got a deer and their own truck broke down.”

“Then they return it with a full tank and give you some backstrap for your trouble,” Trystan added drily.

“Why can’t people be like that everywhere?” Cloe asked with despair. “And why are you driving so fast? Are we in a hurry?”

“I’m going thirty. Kilometers,” Trystan clarified. “It only feels fast in comparison to cruising speed on the boat.”

“I’m going to be honest and admit I was worried,” Johnny said. “When you moved Sarah to the Storm Front and saddled us with this one, I thought you must have lost a bet, but she is solid gold entertainment.”

“Thanks,” Cloe said with the appropriate level of sarcasm to make Johnny laugh and nudge his elbow into her. He was turning into a big brother figure and she kind of adored him despite their still-new acquaintanceship.

Trystan dropped him a few minutes later at the end of a long driveway, then continued into the farmland before he turned into another long driveway. They approached a modest house built at the foot of a looming mountain. The yard was neat as a pin, freshly mowed around the fruit trees, and the weeds were pulled within the fenced vegetable garden.

Trystan parked near the back steps and cut the engine.

Cloe popped out the passenger side and met him at the stoop. He opened the screen door, revealing the inside door was already open. He waved for her to step in ahead of him.

A wall of steam laden with the heavy aroma of syrup and fruit greeted her. A pot on the stove was bubbling and seemingly every surface was covered with flats of peaches, jars both empty and full, and the various implements needed for whatever was being done.

A woman with the matronly plumpness of middle age and salty strands in her short black hair turned. She gave Cloe a startled look before she looked past her and smiled in welcome.

“You’re here already.” She pulled the tea towel off her shoulder and patted her hands with it, making a face of dissatisfaction as she did. “I thought I’d get these peaches into jars before you arrived.”

“Hi, Mom.” Trystan wrapped a loose arm around her shoulders, hugging her and kissing her cheek before saying, “This is Storm’s aunt, Cloe. She’s helping us on the Storm Ridge . My mom, Pauline.”

“It’s nice to meet you.” Cloe offered her hand.

“It’s good to meet you and I’m so sorry for your loss—” Pauline made a little jazz hand gesture. “I’m sticky. Let me finish this batch before we sit down. Find something to drink.” She waved that command at Trystan.

Trystan poured glasses of water, then he asked, “Is this syrup ready?”

“Yes, top up those jars,” Pauline directed. “The lids should be soft enough to go on.”

Trystan poured enough liquid to cover the bright yellow fruit neatly stuffed into each mason jar, then he used a wand that must have been magnetic to pull the sealing lids from steaming water. He secured them to the jars with rings, then set the rack across the mouth of the canning tub, lowering the jars into water that was bubbling loudly.

His mother set a timer and finished packing another jar. Trystan topped up and closed each one so they were ready to go into the tub when the first ones came out. Pauline gave her hands a wash with soap and used a fresh tea towel to dry them.

“Let’s sit outside and hope the flies aren’t too bad.”

“With you smelling like a stack of pancakes?” Trystan teased. “Good luck.”

“I’ll keep them off you, won’t I?” She walked outside and sighed in relief.

The deck was covered, and it was only ten thirty so it was a pleasant temperature with a nice breeze floating up the valley.

“Where’s Andy and the kids?” Trystan asked as he handed his mother a glass of water.

Cloe lowered into one of the lawn chairs that stood open and were scattered haphazardly in little groups, as though there had been a party here last night. She soon figured out it was just a busy houseful of middle-grade kids and their friends.

“He and Nash are hunting. Kristen’s at Amy’s, but she knows it’s Friday. She’ll turn up to say hello. Owen is mowing lawns. He’s saving up for some gaming thing.”

“Like he has the time to play games, kid’s such a go-getter. Good for him.” The corner of Trystan’s mouth kicked up in affection.

“This is a surprise,” Pauline said as she turned her attention to Cloe. “I understood no one could find family on Tiffany’s side. That’s why the boys took custody of Storm.”

“Boys,” Trystan repeated with a significant glance at Cloe. “Like I’m also saving up for a GameCube.”

“Pfft. You wish you had that kind of money,” Pauline scoffed. “Maybe see if Owen will subcontract to you.”

Cloe tried to stifle her chuckle, but she loved everything about their relationship, from the part where Pauline had taught Trystan the mysterious art of preserving peaches, to the fact he had obviously shared with his mother some of his cash-flow problems, to the way her teasing put such a big grin on his face, reminding him that money was not the most important thing in life.

Pauline returned her attention to Cloe, her expression patient and friendly, not demanding any explanations, but open to hearing whatever she cared to share.

“I had some personal issues that I had to figure out,” she said cryptically.

The ringing phone saved her from having to say more.

“I’ll get it.” Trystan rose.

“You know that’s Kristen, asking you to come get her so she doesn’t have to walk. You don’t have to spoil her,” she called to his back.

Apparently, he did because he came outside a moment later to say to Cloe, “It’s five minutes up the road. Do you want to come with me?”

“Stay,” his mother insisted. “It’s nice to have company. But ask Iris if she has any wide-mouth lids she can loan me until I get to the store.”

Trystan nodded and climbed into the truck. He backed it into a worn patch on the lawn that seemed to exist for that purpose, then drove away.

“How do you come to be working on the Storm Ridge ? Is Sarah all right?” Pauline asked.

“Yes, she moved to the Storm Front .” Cloe explained how Trystan and his brothers were actually helping her by giving her this job. “I’m pretty much broke and starting from scratch.”

“That happens,” Pauline said simply, then mentioned gently, “I met your sister once. We were visiting Trystan’s uncle Har in Wág ? ís ? a. Wilf brought her and the baby across for a checkup with the health nurse. They came into the coffee shop while we were there. Everyone was full of smiles, Tiffany and the baby and Wilf especially. You’d think he was the first man to ever make a baby.” She shook her head in amusement at the memory. “Like he didn’t have three others already.”

Cloe’s lips didn’t know if they wanted to turn up or down. Pauline didn’t betray any resentment, but it must have been hard to see Wilf acting as though he had forgotten the son he’d made with her.

“Thank you for telling me that,” Cloe said sincerely. “It’s important to me to know Tiffany was happy. I’m really upset with myself that I didn’t come sooner.”

“Loss is hard.” Pauline gave a knowing nod. “Regret always seems to be part of it.” Her worried gaze looked to where the truck had been parked. “Trystan pretends he’s not bothered, but…”

Cloe’s mind ticked over with the few things Trystan had told her about his father. She wound up speaking without thinking. “Maybe it’s easier to let someone go if you convince yourself you’re angry with them, so you don’t have to face the regret.”

Pauline’s brows went up and she nodded thoughtfully. Her gaze seemed to take Cloe in with more consideration, as though she was wondering if Cloe knew her son better than she had expected.

“I’ve watched Trystan’s show,” she said as an explanation for that. “It must be strange to have a son who is famous.”

“Is that what he told you?” She was so straight-faced and unimpressed, Cloe burst out laughing.

Pauline’s expression softened, revealing she was joking. She was actually proud of her son, Cloe could tell.

“Oh, I think I heard a ding.” Cloe pointed into the kitchen. “Do the jars have to come out? Can I help?”

By the time Trystan returned, Cloe had learned how to blanch peaches so the skin peeled away, then pare the fruit free of its stone before packing it into the jars.

“We had to go to the store for the lids,” Trystan said, setting a few boxes on the table. “Also, somebody wanted sour candies.” He tugged one of the black braids worn by the girl of nine or ten who had come in with him.

“Hi. I’m Kristen,” she said with a shy smile. “Would you like one?” She offered the bag of sugar-coated worm-shaped candies.

“I don’t actually like sour candies,” Cloe said with apology. “More for you.”

“Owen doesn’t, either. That’s why I buy them. So he doesn’t eat them on me.” She popped one in her mouth, then set them aside to wash her hands.

For the next hour, they all pitched in, bumping into each other as they processed the peaches. It was hot work, but it was made fun with chatting and jokes.

Cloe couldn’t help watching Trystan with his casual strength and economical movements. His black T-shirt slid against the contours of his chest and his well-worn cargo shorts hugged his buttocks with great affection.

“Wait, Cloe. Where are you going with that? It’s heavy,” Trystan said, coming up behind her. His arms caged her and his hands closed over hers.

Her hands were encased in oven mitts so she could grasp the handles of the canning tub full of boiling water. “I wasn’t going anywhere. I noticed it wasn’t centered on the burner.”

“Oh.” He stayed behind her and made the small adjustment, body brushing hers before he finally released her.

By then, she was breathless and damp from the steam coming off the tub, blushing because the fronts of his thighs had nudged against the backs of hers, bare skin to bare skin. Now she had an idea how it would feel to have his legs between hers and she really needed to stop .

“Are you guys boyfriend and girlfriend?” Kristen asked.

“What? No.” Cloe snapped her gaze from Trystan’s tensing shoulders to Kristen. She found a smile to soften her sharp tone. “I work for Trystan on the Storm Ridge .”

“I know, but”—she ducked her head into her shrug—“he never brought anyone here before. I thought that meant—I’m really embarrassed.” She pressed her palms to her darkening cheeks.

“Don’t be embarrassed. He’s just being nice to me. We’re only friends.” Cloe’s words dried her throat. She looked for her glass of water and drained it.

She didn’t look at Trystan.

When the last of the peaches were in jars, Trystan made salmon sandwiches that they ate on the deck.

“Thank you for that,” Cloe said after Pauline left them at the wharf after lunch. Owen had called to say he was finished with his mowing so Pauline was taking him and Kristen to a favorite swimming hole. Trystan had checked in with Johnny and he said he could catch a lift to the wharf when his nephew went to work at the grocery store.

“Thank you ,” Trystan said. “I didn’t realize we’d be canning peaches, but I’m glad we were there to help or Mom would still be at it.”

Cloe had been agog when Pauline had taken her into the pantry where she stored all her preserves. It had been spotless and scrupulously organized, but the greater wonder was the amount of work it represented. She’d given Cloe a couple of jars to bring back to the Storm Ridge and Cloe was unreasonably proud that she had helped pack and process them.

“It’s the sort of happy chaos I wish I had grown up with,” Cloe said. “I envy you.”

“I didn’t grow up here with them,” he reminded her. “They’re Andy’s kids with his first wife. But you’re right. They’re a great family. I’m lucky to have any part in it. They’ve been really good for Mom, too. After I interrupted her career ambitions, she never found the right time or partner to have more kids. That’s another reason she was okay with me living with Dad and Glenda. Logan and Reid were the only siblings I had.”

As they walked to the Storm Ridge , Cloe was struck by how quiet the wharf was. At least half the boats had departed and most of the rest were bobbing empty in their slips.

They walked into a quiet saloon where the air was close and overheated from having everything locked up.

While she opened a window and Trystan secured the door, it hit her that they were alone here. For how long?

“What time do people start coming back?” she asked, trying to keep her tone normal. Just curious.

“Four thirty or five.” His was also level and steady and normal.

She glanced at the clock. It was 2:10 p.m.

She swallowed.

“Do you feel like seeing some waterfalls?” Trystan asked abruptly. “They’re about twenty minutes from here, mostly walking along the road so it’s easy.”

“Sounds great!”

*

This was becoming impossible.

Trystan wasn’t even sure why he’d invited Cloe to join him at his mother’s. Mostly because the idea of her staying behind on the boat, alone, had been unthinkable. It sounded like she’d had enough people turn their backs and leave her fending for herself. She needed someone who would include her and bring her along for a couple of hours of conversation.

Spending time with his mother should have been the least erotic activity on the planet, but all that steam had put a glow on her skin and made her clothes cling damply to her curves. She hadn’t been afraid to crack silly jokes so she’d been smiling nonstop, eyes bright with laughter. She smelled like freaking peaches and cream.

So fucking enticing.

When she had looked as though she intended to pick up that canning tub and take a bath in scalding water, his heart had stopped. Then it had stopped again as he sensed the curve of her ass mere millimeters from his twitching cock.

After all that subtle stimulation, the last thing he could take was two hours alone with her on the Storm Ridge .

He packed a few essentials and they ambled up the road. It followed the shoreline before it angled inland to the day picnic area. As they arrived, an older couple in an RV was leaving.

It wasn’t exactly an improvement to be left alone here, but it was worth the walk to see Cloe gasp at the falls from the viewing platform.

“You should see them in spring,” he said, not discounting how pretty they were with the trickling runnels of water that exposed the rock formations that looked like they’d been made by a giant melon baller scooping out sections of pillowy granite.

“Ouch! Did something bite me?” She snatched her hand from the rail. “Oh. No. It’s just a sliver.” Cloe sucked her fingertip.

“Let me see.” He took her finger and pinch rolled it. The splinter wasn’t deep. He was able to set his thumbnail against it and push it back out again. He wiped it away.

Then he kissed her fingertip before he’d even thought about what he was doing.

They both froze.

“I—” Do that with Storm , he should have explained, but he was not thinking of Cloe the way he thought of Storm.

He made himself let go of her hand and step away, staring blindly at the falls.

“I’m trying really hard to keep my hands off you,” he said, hearing the strain in his own voice. “Maybe tell me to fuck off. That might help.”

“That’s kind of the opposite of what I want to say,” she said in a hollow voice, arms crossed to hug herself.

“Fuck on?” It was the lamest joke ever.

“Pretty much.”

They both released jagged, helpless chuckles.

“If I tell you I’m not on any kind of birth control, does that help?” she said.

“Not when I put condoms in the bag like an opportunistic asshole.”

“Oh my God.” She pinched the bridge of her nose, laughing as she spoke. “I love that you prepare for every disaster that could possibly occur.”

“It would be a disaster.” He caught the flex of hurt on her profile. “I didn’t mean it wouldn’t be good. That’s the problem.” Where the hell were a bunch of nosy tourists when you needed them? He looked around, but it was as though they were the last pair of humans left on earth.

“Can I ask you one thing? You don’t have to answer.” She dropped her hand and bit her lip. Her cheeks grew pink. Shy?

“What?”

“Have you ever had sex outdoors? I know that’s personal.” She put up a hand. “But I’ve been wondering since we made jokes about Nathan and Christina. I’m kind of jealous because they probably did, and I never have.”

“Come on, Cloe.” He looked to the sky. “You can’t tell me you have fantasies and not expect me to want to fulfill them.”

“I just wondered,” she mumbled, craning her neck to look down from the rail. “Wait.” She jerked her head up. “Is that the problem? Do you think I’m into you because you’re famous? That that’s my fantasy?”

“I can’t say it hasn’t crossed my mind.” He let the day pack slide off his shoulder, slipping the water bottle from its external pocket as he did. He offered it.

“Wow.” She took the bottle and popped the top, pouring a shot’s worth down her throat. “You could try having a little more self-esteem. Isn’t it possible that I like you, Trystan? That I’m attracted to the man? Unless you’re only attracted to me because I’m helpless. If so, you can go to hell.” She handed back the bottle.

“That’s why it’s a bad idea. Because you’re in a rough place.” Christ, he hated repeating himself. He took a long drink of water, gusting out his breath as he snapped the cap back into place. “You realize we’re bickering because we both want to have sex and know we shouldn’t.”

“ You decided we shouldn’t. And that’s fine. Consent on both sides. I support that.” Her mouth pinched briefly. “But, just to be clear, I’m not trying to fill a page in my autograph book. Or fall in love. I’m just really tired of feeling only sadness and resentment and self-blame. You make me feel good, Trystan.” Her voice faded, telling him how vulnerable she felt admitting that. “That’s all I want. To feel good for a while.”

Ah, hell .