Page 35 of Fragile Heart

Inexplicably, nerves coat my throat and make it hard to breathe. I go hiking with Melissa and Emily all the time. Though they definitely aren’t my scent match. And I’ve never contemplated eating either of them out in one of my favorite spots along the creek. Not that I’m thinking about eating Brielleout right now either. Definitely not. I have no desire to spend the day traipsing through the forest with a damn hard-on.

“I haven’t heard of this one,” she says once the trailhead has disappeared behind us. “I’ve been thinking about working through the trails Melissa keeps as suggestions for the ranch guests. I wonder why this one isn’t on it.”

Is it wrong to bring up Brandon?

Fuck, I’m thirty-five with a kid. This shouldn’t be such a damn gray area for me.

I clear my throat and shove my hands into my pockets. I keep my gaze on the trail ahead of us as I say, “If she recommends this trail, there’s the possibility of someone requesting it for a guided hike. And Melissa won’t hike this one.”

Brielle tenses beside me. “Oh,” she whispers. “I didn’t realize this was one of the ones Brandon loved.”

She glances at me, like she’s trying to gauge my reaction to her knowing about Brandon, but I’m not entirely sure what she’s expecting from me. She’s Melissa’s best friend. Of course she would know about her brother. Didn’t I bring him up in the barn on Friday?

“His favorite, actually. I don’t think she’s been up here since he was killed.”

The trail grows more uneven the deeper we travel, and I grab her elbow when she stumbles over a tree root. My breath catches in my throat, waiting for her instant rejection. Instead, she leans a bit more into me before steadying herself and murmuring her thanks. I can’t smell her at all, not even a faint impression of the lavender.

She must be wearing scent blockers today. Or maybe one of those lotions that I’ve seen some of the Omega pilots use when they don’t need something foolproof. She’d used one at the rodeo. Her using a lotion would explain why I was able to smell her in Mom’s shop.

I force my thoughts away from her scent, focusing on the hike.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve spent so much time outside like this,” she admits a few minutes later. “I’d like to say I’m normally more graceful, but I’d probably be lying.”

I can’t help but smile. “Tell me if you want to stop and head back.”

She shakes her head. “I’m assuming there’s a good view at the end of this one? Or a cool landmark like the Arch?”

“Something like that,” I say.

One eyebrow arches as she stares at me, the first real glimpse into how she is when she isn’t as guarded. It makes my dick twitch.

“There’s a meadow along the edge of a creek,” I say, chuckling. “I packed a lunch and thought we could set up a picnic.”

The trail narrows as the grade grows more intense, and I slip behind her, a hand hovering just in case she slips again. Her breathing grows more ragged, but she doesn’t utter a word in protest to the difficulty of the trail. When it splits around a large pine tree, I guide her to the right, and some tension bleeds out of her when she sees it’s the path taking a slight downhill route.

“Just a little longer,” I offer.

Her shoulders stiffen.

“I’m fine,” she says in a tone I haven’t heard from her before. It’s not the calm and confident tone she used at the rodeo. And certainly not the laughter-filled one from earlier on the hike.

The path widens back out, so I move to walk beside her. I keep my own body relaxed as we traverse the last stretch of the hike before it widens into the flat meadow. The trees clear nearly out of nowhere, similar to the Arch. The creek runs through the center, maybe five feet across most places, mosses and other water-loving plants hugging the rocky banks.

Brielle’s breath catches before she murmurs, “It’s gorgeous.”

I mentally high-five myself. She crosses the open space to the creek, standing on a large rock along the edge. I pull the bag from my back and pull out the blanket, laying it out and then setting the small bit of food in the center.

Brielle glances over her shoulder, and there’s a light in her eyes I haven’t seen yet today. Some of the anxious lump sitting at the base of my throat eases away. She’s having fun. She might be uncertain, but she’s enjoying herself. Without saying anything, she settles on the blanket, crossing her legs and braiding back her hair with quick, efficient movements. I force my gaze away and split the food up.

“There’s a chicken salad and an Italian hero,” I say, holding out both options.

Her lips purse as her head tips, her fingers still working their magic in her hair.

Oh shit. Is she a vegetarian? I didn’t think to ask Mom this morning.

She takes the chicken salad sandwich without comment once she’s secured a hair tie around the end of her braid. The urge to mess it up, to see how her hair looks splayed out along this blanket, hits me so hard it practically blinds me. The explosion of my cinnamon scent is impossible to control. I spread my legs and lean back on my elbow, ignoring the throbbing of my dick, and let my eyes close. It takes all my willpower to not make the first move, to not verify if she’s as affected by this private moment as me. You’d think, with all my flight training, that I’d be more patient. I’d honestly thought I was.

“You said you made these?”

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