Page 16 of Lost in the Wild

“What? Oh, yeah.”

Somewhere in that jumble of quaint, painted buildings is the room I rented for a few nights so I could pester the famous Wild Man of Starlight Ridge for an interview. I won’t lie: despite my big mountain awakening back there, I’m pretty excited to return to indoor plumbing.

“We should do a swap,” I hear myself say, shading my eyes from the sun. It’s mid afternoon, bright, windy and warm, and as we cross the bridge then join the biggest street in town, the shop windows on either side sparkle. There’s a florist, a specialty cookie store, and something called Craft Encounters with hundreds of balls of wool displayed in wicker baskets in the shop window.

“You know, like when people stay in each other’s houses for vacation? I sleep in your cave for a night, then you try my…”

My rented room. With a single twin bed and a lumpy mattress.

God. What am I saying?

“Forget it,” I mutter, my throat dry. It was a dumb idea, and now I can’t look at the wild man towering beside me, his long legs keeping pace as I stride along the sidewalk. Feels like I just exposed my most vulnerable, embarrassing thoughts, and now I’m squirming from awkwardness and regret.

Of course Rowan won’t want to stay in my room with me. What kind of offer is that? He’s literally escorting me down the mountain to get rid of me, and as soon as we say goodbye, I’ll never see him again.

“Alright,” Rowan says.

I blink, tripping over a crack in the sidewalk. Rowan catches my elbow, steadying me. “What?”

“I said alright. We’ll do your swap thing.”

When I gape up at the wild man beside me, he’s too busy squinting into the sunshine to meet my eyes—but I know he’s paying attention, because when I stumble to a halt, he stops immediately too.

And you know… seeing Rowan here in town, yesterday’s dirt washed away and dressed in simple clothes, I can almost picture the man he used to be. The man before he took to the mountains. Handsome and rugged and—and clean cut back then, I bet. With a shaved jaw and a steady smile.

Now there are faint lines at the corners of his eyes—lines that hint that the mountain life is hard going, but that what Rowan ran from is even worse. And he holds himself a little awkwardly in his button down plaid shirt, like if he moves wrong he might accidentally burst through the seams.

He’s haunted. It’s so plain to see down here, surrounded by small shops and cafes and other kitschy painted buildings. From the moment we set foot back in civilization, there’s been an itch under his skin.

And yet he’s offering to stay a whole night here. With me.

“Are you serious?” I rasp.

Rowan nods and frowns. “Are you serious?”

My fingers wrap around his wrist, clinging tight like he might bolt. It’s a good wrist, so big and sturdy that I can’t reach all the way around it. His pulse taps rapidly beneath my fingertips, strong and quick.

“Deadly,” I say.

Rowan’s frown melts away, and the smile he gives me is crooked, lifting his beard. “Well, then,” the wild man says. “Lead me to your lair.”

* * *

“The bed frame shrieks when you roll over,” I warn, our steps loud as we climb the rickety wooden staircase. “And there’s a private bathroom but it’s, like, closet sized.”

“Evie?” Rowan’s deep voice behind me is amused. “It’s fine.”

Yeah, well, that’s easy for him to say. He’s not the one who offered a vacation swap without thinking it through, and who’s now panicking that his guest will hate every second of it.

I spent the ten minute walk here listing everything that’s wrong or broken or shitty about the room—which was a pretty long list. Pretzel Media aren’t known for splashing out on their employees’ accommodation, and this whole hotel looks like it’s held together with spit and prayers.

Called the Eagle’s Nest, it’s near the outskirts of town, wedged between a bike repair shop and a liquor store. Though it’s painted a cloudy purple color, trying to join in with the colorful street, the exterior paint is peeling and patchy from age.

Inside isn’t much better. The reception desk was empty when we arrived, the sound of a TV blaring from the office behind. The decor is shabby chic, with every lamp and rug and painting clearly rescued from a flea market, and there are a lot of eagle themed trinkets.

But it does have indoor plumbing and electric light. So maybe Rowan won’t hate it completely?

“Here we go.” I fumble the key into the lock, turn it, and push the door open. “Home sweet home.”

---