Page 15

RYAN

Hunter called me into his office a few days ago and told me that Marlow and I were weirding everyone else out around the office.

Apparently, the other rangers prefer our constant bickering to our conversations about how nice the weather has been day after day.

Officially, we weren’t doing anything wrong, but apparently our sudden change in demeanor was a hot topic around the office.

Hunter’s parting words were: “Just figure your shit out with her so I don’t have to hear about this anymore.”

I can’t say that the whole small talk routine with Marlow has been suiting me very well either.

Every time I see her, I can’t help but think about last weekend.

I want to talk to her about all the funny, weird moments we had together last weekend, but I think she’d probably slap me if I mentioned it at work.

We never discussed keeping the wedding a secret from the rest of the office, but I can’t imagine she wants the word to get out to our coworkers that we went on a date – fake or not.

More than anything though, I just want to kiss her again.

It’s still a mystery to me how I went from arguing with the woman every chance I got to liking her. Like liking her. Like a teenager who can’t get his fucking hormones under control.

Maybe it’s the fact that I haven’t hooked up with anyone lately.

It’s been weeks since I brought a woman home from the bar.

If I had gone to happy hour with the crew last night, there would have been a dozen hot tourists to choose from.

It would have been an easy distraction, but a cheap substitution.

My brain is stuck on Marlow. The only way to get her out of my system is to either convince her that a one-time thing wouldn’t be a total disaster, or to remind myself of how much she irritates me.

And the most irritating scenario I can imagine with Marlow? A hike.

I heard her tell Emmett once that she’s never hiked before, so I know it’s not her thing. Plus, she’s a princess. She’s going to hate it. Sweating, dirt, bugs…a plethora of things for her to bitch about.

And if that doesn’t work, we’ll be alone together in the middle of nowhere and I can resort to plan B: begging her to reconsider her stance on having sex with me so I can stop thinking about her.

___

Marlow steps out of her bedroom a few minutes later wearing jeans, a black t-shirt, and some colorful sneakers. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail, like it was the day she tried to apologize over lunch for making things weird at the bar.

Her ears are a tad too big for her head.

I file this away in the ‘con’ column of my Marlow list, right next to ‘uninterested in sleeping with me’ and a whole lot of blank space.

The crowd in the bakery downstairs is thicker than ever as we make our way out to my truck.

Marlow seems nervous as she climbs into the passenger seat of my truck.

I’m not sure if it’s the fact that we’re going hiking or the fact that we’re hanging out at all.

She shifts uncomfortably next to me even before we hit the bumpy dirt road.

We’re failing at conversation just as hard as we have every day this week at work. Neither of us has mentioned the weather so far, but we haven’t mentioned much of anything else either.

“How far is it?” Marlow asks as we’re getting out of the car at the trailhead.

“2,190 miles.”

Marlow’s eyes bore into the side of my face. When I finally look over at her, I can’t help but laugh at her annoyed expression.

“It’s however long you want it to be. This is part of the Appalachian Trail, so technically we could keep going all the way to Maine…or we can go a couple miles and turn around,” I say. “This is a pretty easy section, so you should be able to handle it.”

Marlow scoffs. “It’s walking. I’m pretty sure I can handle that.”

I laugh and motion for her to step ahead of me as we start out on the narrow trail.

Marlow sets a surprisingly steady pace. Her long legs help – so does her righteous indignation over my previous comment.

And I can’t complain about the view with Marlow in front of me.

The slight incline at the start of the hike puts her ass right in front of my face.

That goes on the ‘pro’ side of the list.

I glance up at her ears and decide that they really aren’t too big after all. They’re actually cute. Reluctantly, I mentally drag ‘ears’ over to the pro side of my list, leaving the con side practically blank again.

Fuck me.

The last time I went hiking with someone else was…

well, I don’t remember when it was. Or who it was.

I hike almost every weekend, but I rarely invite anyone else to go with me.

It gives me time to zone out. As much as I like people, I need a break from them as well.

Otherwise, I start to like them a lot less.

Since I skipped happy hour and had last night all to myself, I can sacrifice my alone time today for the greater good of figuring things out with Marlow.

Even though it’s an easy hike, this is one of my favorite sections of the trail.

The forest is dense and green here, and the crowds are sparse.

The trailhead is off the beaten path. It’s unmarked and the access road is shit.

And yeah, I know that I work for the exact agency that could fix those things, but honestly, I’d rather not.

The Appalachian Trail is so overrun with people these days that it’s nice to keep one little part to myself.

Marlow’s pace starts to slow as the elevation climbs more steeply. To her credit, she hasn’t complained so far. She hasn’t spoken once since we stepped onto the trail, actually.

At the top of the hill, the trail levels out and widens. I catch up and walk beside Marlow for a while, pointing out some wild blackberries and a pile of bear droppings just off the trail.

Nothing like touting an extensive knowledge of animal crap to woo a woman. Or to irritate her. I seem to come closer to the latter with my random trail narration.

“So, how does someone who has never even hiked before end up applying for a job with the Forest Service?” I ask when she seems uninterested in learning the difference between skunk and raccoon prints.

Marlow stares straight ahead, letting out a sigh before answering. “I was working for a foster care agency in Chicago and I just needed a change.”

“Yeah, but why the Forest Service? And why Gatlinburg?” I press. I’ve heard her official line before. In Marlow’s typical style, it’s a mysterious half-answer to the question.

“I applied for a lot of jobs in a lot of different places, actually. Everywhere from Alaska to Europe. Everywhere but Chicago.”

“Don’t like Chicago?”

“There are a lot of bad memories there,” she says quietly.

“And Hunter was the first to offer you a job?”

“No, he wasn’t the first. I had a couple other offers on the table as well. It was Abby’s program that convinced me to take this job. Hunter said they could use some help getting it up and running, which meant I would still get to help kids.”

“So, you really like kids then?”

I know I’m asking a million questions. I’m probably pressing my luck with Marlow, but as long as she’s talking, I’m going to keep asking.

It’s making her a little uncomfortable. She’s not making eye contact and she’s hesitating before each answer.

But if I can crack the mystery of Marlow, maybe I can find more to add to the ‘con’ list until I can stop thinking about her.

“Yeah, I do like kids, but I have a soft spot for foster kids…or any kids with a difficult home life,” she says.

Marlow picks every word so carefully that it’s impossible to ignore the fact that she’s dancing around something. The words ‘soft spot’ stick out to me. She’s used them before, at the wedding after she told that woman off.

“Hey, can I ask you something? You can tell me to fuck off if you don’t want to answer.” I’m really pressing my luck now.

“I love telling you to fuck off,” she laughs.

“I know.”

A beat goes by while I try to pick the best words, the ones that might not piss her off. She looks over at me then trips over a rock and stumbles a couple steps forward.

“You okay?” I ask, reaching out to steady her. It’s a short brush of contact that reminds me how much I like touching her. How badly I want to do more of it.

“Yeah,” she says with a laugh. “What were you going to ask me?”

“I was wondering if there’s a reason that you have such a soft spot for foster kids, besides working with them at your previous job.”

We walk a few steps quietly before Marlow answers with a slow nod.

“I grew up in foster care.”

This is the answer I expected, but it still surprises me to hear her say it out loud.

For a long time, neither of us says anything else. I don’t want to push her any harder, and I’m sure there’s no question that I could follow up with that won’t be obnoxiously redundant to Marlow. She’s probably heard them all before.

We stick to lighter subject matter until lunchtime. There’s a clearing just off the trail where we stop to eat. Marlow perches on a log while I crouch down and retrieve two sandwiches from my backpack. Her face twists up in hesitation when I hold one sandwich bag out to her.

“What’s in it?” she asks.

“Just some ham…bacon...veal…a chicken strip wrapped in bologna.”

Marlow eyes the sandwich like I’ve just handed her an arsenic pancake. She really thinks I would try to feed her meat even though I’m fully aware that she’s a vegetarian.

Then I remember that I did actually try to feed her meat just last weekend at the wedding. Not intentionally, but she doesn’t know that.

“Relax, there’s no meat in it,” I say. “It’s all vegetables, some hummus, a little bit of feta.”

She unwraps the sandwich and takes a bite only suitable for a small mouse. I can’t help but laugh at her. She shoots me a scathing glare in return, but only holds it for a second.

“Thanks,” she says, motioning to the sandwich before taking another bite. She chews slowly. Even when she’s sitting on a log in the middle of the forest, her perfect posture remains intact.

“I ate so much mystery meat in foster care,” she says with a little laugh. “Meatloafs, Salisbury steaks, stews…it was almost always terrible. I learned to love vegetables at a pretty young age.”

“So that’s why you’re a vegetarian?”

Marlow takes another bite of her sandwich, buying herself some time to think about her answer.

“It’s not just that. When you grow up in foster care, you don’t get a lot of choices.

You’re always having to adapt to new families and their way of doing things.

New houses, new schedules, new people, new food.

You don’t have any choice but to adapt…quickly.

I promised myself back then that once I got to make all my own choices, I’d make good ones.

From what I eat to what I wear to how I live. ”

“I thought you were just a pain in the ass,” I admit, though I probably shouldn’t.

Luckily, Marlow laughs. “Well, I do take certain things pretty seriously. I don’t want to take those decisions for granted now. I’d rather be a pain in the ass than be unhappy with myself.”

“At least you’re self-aware.”

“Yeah, well foster care will do that, too. It’s not exactly great for a kid’s self-esteem.”

And the award for biggest asshole goes to: me.

All the things I believed about Marlow start to unravel in my head. What’s left is one single fact: I want her so badly I can barely think straight.