Page 14

CHAPTER 13

Little Victories Bucket List No. 21: S’mores

The grocery bag was heavier than it should’ve been, swinging against her thigh with every hurried step. The fading light painted the quiet street in gold and shadow, and the spring breeze stirred the tiny hairs on the back of her neck. She glanced over her shoulder again—casual, she told herself. Just checking. But the street was empty.

Still, the feeling clung to her. Watching eyes. A weight between her shoulder blades.

She pulled her cardigan tighter around herself, her fingers gripping the handles of the bag a little too tightly. It wasn’t the first time lately she’d felt it—that uncanny sense of being followed, shadowed.

There had been no word from Baker, who had promised to inform her of any updates regarding her father’s movements. The absence of any news from the former SEAL felt like a heavy weight on her chest. A heavy silence that amplified her anxiety and unease. Combined with the prickling sensation on her skin, the feeling of eyes on her back, and she became a tight bundle of nerves. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was in her head.

Or maybe it wasn’t.

Maybe she was just tired. Maybe her nerves were playing tricks again.

But then—footsteps. Too slow to belong to a jogger, too steady to be the wind.

Her heart kicked into a sprint even though her steps stayed the same. She clutched the bag tighter and quickened her pace, eyes darting toward the safety of her apartment building just a few blocks away. Her keys were in her pocket, but she didn’t dare fumble for them just yet. Not with another two blocks to go.

Then, from behind, a low voice cut through the buzz of her nerves. “Hey,” the deep voice said gently. “You okay?”

She spun fast, her heart leaping into her throat. Her grip tightened around the bag like it was a shield.

It was him.

Wade.

As he stood there in his leather jacket, his hands held out in a peaceful manner, his sharp brown eyes quickly scanned her features, giving her the impression that he missed absolutely nothing.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he added quickly, taking a slow step closer. “I saw you from across the street. You looked . . . tense. Is everything okay?”

Tense? That was an understatement. Her pulse thundered in her ears, but the sight of him—steady, familiar—eased it slightly. He had that way about him, even when she didn’t want to admit it.

“I’m fine,” she said, too quickly. Too sharp. And with a slight quiver.

He raised a brow, tilting his head. “You sure?”

“Yes.” She hesitated, then shook her head. “No. I don’t know. It just felt like someone was following me.”

Wade’s face changed in an instant. The softness in his expression gave way to something harder, more focused. He stepped closer, scanning the street with a quiet intensity, his body subtly shifting in front of hers. Protective. Calm. Solid.

“I don’t see anyone,” he said finally, “but that doesn’t mean no one was there.”

Her throat tightened. “I know it sounds crazy?—”

“It doesn’t,” he cut in. “Not to me.”

A beat passed between them. Long. Quiet. Heavy with things unsaid.

“Let me walk you back,” he said. “Please.” She hesitated, but only for a second. There was something in the way he stood—like he was a shield without needing to say it out loud—that made her chest ease, just a little.

She nodded slowly. And as they started walking—closer now, their steps unconsciously syncing—she realized something.

The fear was still there, lingering at the edges of her mind.

But with him next to her, it didn’t feel quite so big.

As they walked the final block together, their silence was filled with unsaid things. Questions. Warnings. The slow bloom of trust.

She didn’t know why Wade was here, or how he always seemed to show up when she needed someone most. But in that moment, with his steady presence beside her, she didn’t feel watched anymore.

She felt seen.

As she used her key to unlock the exterior door, which opened to a staircase leading up to her apartment, he asked, “What’s on your plan for this evening?”

With a silent gesture, she held up the plastic grocery bags, subtly communicating her intentions for the evening.

“Are those . . . marshmallows?” Wade asked, one eyebrow arched curiously.

“Yup.”

He tilted his head, a slight furrow in his brow as he studied her. “I don’t get it.”

“S’mores, my friend. S’mores.”

“S’mores?”

“Yup. That chocolaty, graham crackery, marshmallowy goodness that I always wanted to try.” With a turn of the key, she entered her apartment and headed to her small kitchen. Wade followed.

“You’re going to make s’mores?”

“I am.”

His eyes searched her apartment before settling on the bag of ingredients she placed on the counter. “How?”

The lack of a fireplace meant her s’mores would be missing that smoky char. But she figured the microwave could do the job just as well. All she needed was a bit of melted marshmallow gooeyness, the kind she’d read about, a texture she imagined as soft and yielding pressed between graham crackers and chocolate. Her mouth watered at the thought; a delicious anticipation filled her.

She waved her hand at the microwave to answer Wade’s question. His frown deepened, furrowing his brow and tightening the corners of his mouth. “Nope,” he said. “Not happening. We can do better than that.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

His gaze raked over her, from head to toe, a silent assessment in his eyes. “Get changed.”

“What?”

“Warm layers work best. It will get chilly.”

“I don―”

He turned her toward her bedroom and gave her a little push. “Get moving. We’ll need to get set up before the sun sets completely.”

“I still don’t―”

“I can’t stand the thought of your first taste of a s’more being from a microwave. Therefore, I’ll take you where we can make a proper campfire.”

She perked up hearing that, a wave of excitement washing over her. “Really?”

“Yes. But only if you hurry up and get changed.”

Too excited to delay, she completed his command with astonishing speed. With a brief stop at his house, he loaded the back of his truck with things she could only guess at, since he wouldn’t let her help. Then he drove them out of town, the engine’s gentle hum the only sound as a blur of houses and trees rushed past. They followed the road as it curled gently ahead, winding its way toward the rising silhouette of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

The hills emerged in soft layers, blue and smoky in the late afternoon light, like they’d been painted into the sky. Each curve of the road brought them closer, the mountains growing more vivid—verdant with pine and oak, their shadows deepening as the sun lowered behind them.

With the windows cracked, the air turned cooler, scented with damp earth and honeysuckle. The radio hummed a slow love song, but it was the view that made her heart swell.

It was beautiful—wild and untamed, just like the way he made her feel.

She glanced over at him as he drove, a smile playing on her lips at the sight of his focused expression. She never expected him. Not in this life, not with her past. Love was something she’d only ever read about, only seen from the outside—foreign, fragile, and always fleeting. Her childhood, a chaotic battlefield of harsh words and the sting of neglect taught her that vulnerability only amplified the pain of inevitable betrayals. This forged a deep-seated belief that emotional dependence only paved the way for more profound hurt.

The most brutal betrayal she suffered, inflicted by the very person who should have loved and protected her above all others, only compounded her suffering. And caused her unshakeable belief that love was a fairytale, a sweet, yet sadly unrealistic fantasy.

So she built walls instead of bridges, taught herself how to survive alone, and convinced herself that broken things didn’t get a second chance. But then he came along—quiet, steady, and maddeningly kind.

He didn’t push, didn’t pry. He simply showed up. With that protective way of watching her, like he could see the ghosts at her back and had no intention of letting them get any closer. His presence was unexpected, a slow-burning warmth that reached into places she’d buried long ago.

“So what prompted you to want a s’more today?” he asked interrupting her internal musings.

“I wanted to try one.”

His eyes darted to her, lingering for a moment before refocusing on the road ahead. “You’ve never had a s’more?”

“Nope.”

He slowly shook his head, the movement barely perceptible, a deep frown etched on his face. “That’s just sad.”

“I know,” she said with a sigh. If he only knew how sad her life had been before moving to Bell Creek.

“How does one go through childhood and not have a s’more?” he wondered.

“Because my father was always working. Family life was practically non-existent and was devoid of the usual activities, like camping trips or weekend barbecues.” That was putting it mildly. Things like family and love were foreign concepts in her home. She even balked at calling the place she lived for almost twenty years a home. It was more like a prison and she was no more than an indentured servant.

“Was it just you and your dad?”

“Yeah. My mom left when I was eight.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too. I don’t remember that much about her. But I remember wishing things had been different.”

“What do you mean?”

Embarrassed and pained by the vivid memories of her wretched childhood, she grimaced and nervously twisted her hands together in her lap. She couldn’t explain her embarrassment. It was not her shame to carry. She’d been an innocent child. The shame should have been her father’s responsibility to bear, not hers. “My father was a hard man. I don’t think he ever loved anybody. Not my mom. And certainly not me.” A truth that was tough to admit.

He stretched his arm across the console and gently laid his considerably larger hand over hers, his fingers completely covering her own as he squeezed them in a comforting gesture. “That’s rough.”

With a small, almost imperceptible shrug of one shoulder, she dismissed his concerns. “It is what it is. I got away from all of that. Now, I’m determined to make up for all the experiences and opportunities I missed”

“Hence the bucket list.”

“Yup.”

“And the s’mores,” he said, his eyes twinkling with amusement as he looked at her.

She giggled. “And the s’mores.”

His hand remained on her as they left the main road behind. They bumped along a rutted dirt road, the tires throwing up dust as they went. Entering a sun-dappled clearing, he parked his truck, the silence of the woods immediately replacing the hum of the engine. As he unloaded what looked like camping gear from the truck bed, she watched, unsure how to assist. Her gaze followed his every move, captivated by the way his muscles flexed and rippled as he worked, now that his leather jacket was off.

The sun slipped behind the ridge, leaving a smear of pink and gold across the sky. Crickets tuned up in the underbrush, and the air was starting to cool, brushing soft fingers down her bare arms. Wade crouched by the fire pit, stacking kindling with practiced ease, his sleeves pushed up and hands steady.

“Are we allowed to do this here?” she whispered, glancing around nervously at the towering trees.

“My boss owns this land. He wants to build a cabin here, eventually. Just never got a chance to yet. He lets us come here whenever we need to decompress.”

With a tilt of her head, she observed him, her brow slightly furrowed in thought. “Do you need to do that a lot? Decompress, I mean.”

“On occasion,” he answered while strategically placing a few logs. “More the last couple of years,” he admitted.

“Why’s that?” she wondered with genuine curiosity.

He was so engrossed in his work that he pointedly avoided looking at her, the silence between them thick with unspoken tension. His avoidance felt deliberate, a calculated act of self-preservation. “I lost a teammate on a mission about three years ago.”

She couldn’t control the gasp that escaped, having not expected that answer. “I’m so sorry.”

He shrugged, his expression conveying a sense of weary acceptance. “I didn’t handle the aftermath well,” he admitted further. “I blamed the wrong people for what happened. I was a complete fuck up.” With a sharp crack, he broke a small twig between his fingers, the gesture betraying his anger and regret over his actions. Beneath the anger, she saw something else. Something like pain. He was still grieving the loss of his friend. Maybe he’d buried his grief so deep he hadn’t even allowed himself to acknowledge it, let alone begin the grieving process. “It’s a miracle I even still have my job.”

“Your boss must see something in you that you don’t.”

His gaze lifted abruptly to hers, a look of surprise clear in his eyes as he registered her unexpected theory. “Maybe.”

Feeling as if she had reached the limit of what she could learn from him, she chose to say nothing more. She watched him from her spot on a log, knees pulled up to her chest. He wore yet another T-shirt, much like the others she knew he owned, this time in a royal blue hue. His wardrobe consisted almost exclusively of T-shirts from one particular company; it was as if he were a walking advertisement. And what an advertisement it was. If she saw an ad with someone as breathtakingly handsome as him—that smile, that hair, those eyes—she’d buy whatever they were selling without a second thought. Paired with the jeans that hugged . . . everything. Yeah, he was a walking billboard for testosterone, muscles bulging beneath his tight shirt, radiating an aura of barely contained self-confidence.

And yet there was that moment of vulnerability that spoke to her. She was starting to believe he hid his insecurity behind that self-confidence.

“You really know your way around fire,” she teased, placing a marshmallow on a stick in preparation for the yummy goodness.

With a quiet laugh, he struck the match. “I’ve done this a time or two.” A tiny flame bloomed, flickering to life as it caught the kindling. Slowly, warmth spread out in a growing circle, and as the fire came alive, it cast a golden glow across his face and the surrounding trees. Shadows danced, long and dreamy.

She handed him a stick and a marshmallow, smiling as their fingers brushed. “Think you can handle this part?”

“Oh, I’m a s’more professional.”

She laughed, the sound light and easy, carried away by the wind. The fire crackled low and steady, its orange glow casting flickering shadows around the clearing. She kneeled beside him. She stuck her marshmallow tipped stick into the flame and watched as it caught fire. With a squeak, she pulled out the stick complete with a slightly charred marshmallow skewered at the end.

“Okay, so that was a fail,” she said, blowing on the blackened puff of sugar. “I think I just invented marshmallow charcoal.”

He chuckled, reaching for another marshmallow and placing it on another stick. “You’re rushing it. S’mores are an art form, not a race.” He passed her the fresh one. “Here. Let me show you how it’s done.”

She watched him, her eyes following the way his fingers moved—steady, confident, familiar. He adjusted the marshmallow on the end and then positioned it just above the flames, not in them.

“You want to find the sweet spot,” he said, nodding toward the glowing embers. “Not too close, or it’ll catch fire. Too far, and it’ll just sit there getting sad.”

“So, we’re avoiding sadness. Got it.”

“Exactly. Rotate it slowly.” He demonstrated, turning the stick between his fingers with rhythmic ease. “Let the heat work its magic. It should be golden, a little crispy on the outside, gooey on the inside.” His gruff voice, each word a low rumble in his chest, had an electrifying effect on her. She watched his lips as he spoke, wondering what else that mouth could do. The thought sent a wave of intense energy surging through her, causing her very core to pulse and throb.

Holy cow. What was that?

When the marshmallow was perfectly toasted, he slid it off the stick onto a waiting graham cracker layered with chocolate. He pressed the second cracker on top, the marshmallow oozing gently at the edges.

“Voilà,” he said, holding it out to her. “The perfect s’more.”

She took it from his hand, their fingers brushing for a moment too long. As she took a bite, her eyes widened.

“Okay,” she mumbled around the mouthful, “that’s stupid good.”

He grinned. “Told you.”

After she finished her first s’more, she craved another. This time they both held a marshmallow skewered stick over the fire, the heat licking at their fingers, the sweet scent of melting sugar curling into the air. Once he assembled his own, he took a dramatic bite, chocolate smearing the corner of his mouth, and her laughter bubbled up again. She squealed and laughed after taking her own bite as the sticky sugar mess squeezed out from between the graham crackers and smeared her fingers. He leaned closer to wipe a smudge off her cheek with the pad of his thumb and her breath caught in her lungs.

Their eyes met in the firelight—her smile lingering, his expression softening. For a moment, the world hushed. The woods, the stars, the night breeze all faded, and there was only the crackle of the fire, the warmth of each other’s nearness. The firelight danced across his face, softening the sharp edges, and for a moment she forgot the world beyond this clearing, beyond the warmth of his presence.

It was quiet now, but not awkward. Just the kind of quiet that made her heart feel full.