Bran laughs as he kicks dirt onto the fire to make sure it's out all the way. “You need a horse.”
“I have two, but they're back at the farm.”
“Which farm?”
“My family owns Jamison's up on Thirty-Seven.”
“Oh yeah, that's right. I used to pick apples there when I was a kid.”
“Me too, only not for fun.” Laughing sarcastically, I roll my eyes.
He laughs with me and nods. “I can understand that. It's fun when it's not your job.” Throwing the pack over his shoulders, he looks out at the tree line. “You ready for this?”
“Ready as I'll ever be.”
“Wait,” he says, holding up a finger. “I have an idea.”
Bran darts off into the trees quickly, and Buttercup follows him.
“Buttercup, wait!” I call out, but he ignores me, tagging along with Bran anyway.
A few minutes later, they both emerge from the brush, and Buttercup is carrying a large stick.
He runs to me and drops it at my feet. “Not now, Buttercup, we have to get going. We can play fetch later.”
“No, the stick isn't for fetch, it's for you. You can use it like a crutch or a cane to help you walk and keep your balance. The less weight you have to put on it, the better.”
Sexy and creative. I'm falling for him already.
There really is nothing hotter than a man who can use his hands and his head. And when you top that with being the sexiest man I've ever seen, you get the whole package.
“All right, let's hit the road.” His hands grip the straps on his pack, and he steps to the side. “I'll stay beside you just in case.”
“Good. You can catch me if I fall.”
“Always,” he says.
The way he says it makes my chest constrict and my heart stop. His tone is deep, full of truth and basked in honesty. He picked me up once when I fell, and he'll do it again if he has to.
The woods are alive with birds and small animals. Squirrels are leaping from limb to limb and there's a woodpecker making a lot of noise in the distance. I'm taking careful steps, using the stick to help counter my weight and keep my balance.
We walk in silence. An awkwardness falls between us as we slowly make our way up the trail. Nothing is tense, just awkward.
“So,” I finally say, “you still make those things?”
“Yeah,” he answers with a laugh. “I still make those things.”
“I'm sorry, I don't know what you call them.”
“It's fine, don't apologize. I just call it art.”
“I always thought of art as a painting or drawing.”
“That's one type of art. But you also have sculpting, plays, films, books. All of it is considered art.”
“I didn't know that.”
“What I do I guess is called expressionism art. I like to make things that are subjective. Everyone sees something different.”
“Well, what you do is beautiful. I love the sculpture outside the motel. I've spent hours just staring at it.”
“Thanks. What about you? You still working there?”
“Yeah, for now.”
“For now?” he asks.
Stumbling over a rock, he grabs my elbow and helps me steady myself. His touch is firm and tender in the same breath. The heat off his fingers sizzle against my skin, sending a rush of electricity up my arm.
“Thank you,” I say.
“I meant what I said. I'll always catch you.” He lets his fingers linger a little longer before pulling them away.
My skin goes cold, and I miss his fingers there instantly.
“So, you were telling me about work.”
“Oh, yeah. Well, I like the motel, but I don't want to stay there for the rest of my life.”
“What do you want to do then?”
“I don't know. My brother thinks I should go to college for business and run my own hotel or something, but I'm not sure if that's what I want.”
“Well, what do you like to do?”
“What do you mean?” I ask, carefully climbing over a fallen tree.
“For fun. What do you like to do for fun?”
Shrugging my shoulder, I say, “I don't know. I like hiking, camping, riding my horses. Being outside really, that makes me happy the most.”
“I've never been on a horse before.” He quickly holds out his hand and grabs my shoulder. “Hold on. You see that?”
Stopping, there's a thin, rocky stretch of terrain in front of us. I fumble with my walking stick a little as I debate the best way for me to navigate it.
“Shit.”
Bran pulls his pack off and drops down to his knees. “Climb on,” he says.
“What? No, you don't have to carry me.”
“Just climb on. I'm not going to risk you losing your balance here.”
“Are you sure?” I ask. He looks back at me over his shoulder, his eyes serious. “All right, then.”
Climbing onto his back, I have my stick in one hand and he passes me the strap to hold his pack in my other hand.