No Gentle Giant (A Small Town Romance)

That’s my problem to deal with, though.

I grumble and slump down in the driver’s seat.

“Can’t always tell when people are joking sometimes. My primary social life for the last twelve years has been Eli,” I say.

“Is it true what Holt says?” she teases. “That you spent more time around polar bears than people?”

Not this shit again.

“I think what’s true is I’m gonna have to string Holt Silverton from a ceiling fan by his balls. When did he tell you that?”

She smiles at me sunnily. “While you were checking the chains on the crane.”

“You mean when his lazy ass was supposed to be helping me,” I counter.

“He was helping you.” She blinks innocently. “He was helping me feel safe with you. I think he called you a—what was it again?” Felicity makes a big show out of thinking, tapping at her lower lip and raising her eyes to the roof of the cab. “A big teddy bear. That’s what he said. Just a big old fuzzy squish.”

“There’s nothing squishy about me, woman,” I say darkly.

“But you are kinda fuzzy.”

“Can’t deny that.” I grin, stroking my beard. Really oughta give it a trim, or just go straight-up Viking and start putting beads in it. “Does that make you want to pet me?”

There’s nothing but a strangled sound from her, and I glance off the road—I’m doing that too much with this girl—to find her staring stiffly out the window, her face red as a beet.

“Hey,” I murmur. “Just teasing. Promise you I really am harmless. We’re just killing time on a long drive, but I’m sorry if I crossed a line.”

“You didn’t.” She laughs then, and it’s honest and sweet and real. A coil of tension in me loosens its grip. With one more shy peek at me, she brushes her hair back. “I’m not used to people being that easy with me. I mean, yeah, I have my friends who don’t care about the petty small-minded stuff, but they have their own troubles. I’m usually the one listening to them, trying to lighten their mood.”

“Don’t you think it’s about time you deserved somebody listening to you?” I ask.

“Deserved? I don’t know about that.” She gives me a smile that could bring summer to Fairbanks in January. “But it’s definitely nice to have your ear.”

I can’t answer.

Not when that smile makes my heart boom behind my ribs, churning and straining even harder than the traction on this eighteen-wheeler.

Even so, I’m glad to smile back, and we settle into an easy, comfortable quiet for the rest of the drive.

We take the scenic route—though technically every route feels like the scenic one up here.

The road slopes down on one side to lush overgrown valleys full of trees older than my grandpa, clustered so dense together it’s like primordial forest. When an ancient tree falls in these parts, it never quite hits the ground. It just gets caught up in the branches of the trees around it and leans there while new things grow on it, grass and moss and vines, all the living things making their homes inside.

To the other side, the mountains rise in sheer cliffs and rough slopes.

Every now and then as we round a turn we get a breathtaking view of snowy peaks marching against a brilliant blue skyline so clear you’d think it was a technicolor painting.

Not something real.

The beauty continues as we crest a peak in the road that cuts through a mountain pass, looking down into the miniature valley that cups Glass Lake.

Now I can see how it got its name.

It’s as clear and smooth as glass, barely rippling, throwing back the reflection of day with a perfect blue sheen. It’s also so translucent you can see into the depths.

Looks a bit murky toward the center, though.

Too deep to make out more than muddy shadows beyond a certain point, the reflection of the sky becoming a mask that hides what’s underneath.

On the far end of the lake there’s a little rental place along the shore with a few pontoon boats bobbing in a small marina. Sort of disorienting when the water’s clarity makes the boats look like they’re floating on air—something I’ve only seen in places like French Polynesia before.

Felicity lets out an awed sound, looking through the windshield with wide eyes. “It’s gorgeous. I forgot just how beautiful it is up here.”

“You come here a lot?”

“...used to.” She hooks her index fingers together, tugging them like she’s trying to break out of an invisible finger trap. “Back when, you know, things were still good with my family. We’d come camping up here sometimes.”

“Fliss?”

“Yeah?”

“You sure you want to do this?” I make sure the brake’s locked, the truck idling, before I turn to face her, propping an arm against the back of the seat. “What if there’s nothing up here for you but bad memories?”