Page 10 of My Star-Crossed Summer

Stupefied, I try to think of anything to say to him, anything at all, but the words swirl around in my head like a tornado. None of it makes sense—not the words, not my thoughts, not the fact that he’s on this mountain with me, looking as chiseled and confident as a stunt-double in the Thor movies.

Inside my room, he sets the bag by my bed and turns to catch me staring. His eyes, framed by thick, epic eyebrows that punctuate every word, still have that perpetually sleepy expression that makes him look like he just rolled out of bed.

I do not need to think of Noah Valentine in a bed, with rumpled hair and a lazy grin.

Nope.

“Thanks,” I manage. All other words fly right out of my head.

A tiny smirk touches his lips as he takes the box that I’m clutching tight against my chest and sets it on the desk by the window. When he rests his hands on his hips, the movement drags my eyes exactly where they should not linger, and my mouth instantly goes dry.

I force my gaze back up, but that’s no good either because now my brain is calculating just how delightful his beard stubble would feel against my skin—because unfortunately my body remembers that, too. He lifts one dark eyebrow as if he can read my mind and rakes a hand through his hair—short on the sides and long enough on top to stand up in every direction. He always did have an intense gaze, but now? It’s smoldering.

And I’m a tinderbox.

“It’s been a minute,” he says, his voice more gravelly than I remember. “How have you been?”

He says this like it’s not at all uncomfortable to be stuck in this tiny room, mere inches apart. Like he hasn’t seen himself in a mirror lately and has no memory of the last time we were together. His voice is cool and even, but that furrow in his brow says he’s just as taken aback as I am.

“Great,” I say, because apparently I’ve been reduced to one-syllable words only.

“I can’t believe it’s really you.” He offers a tiny smile, like he’s not sure what to feel, either..

“Hey, Victoria,” Sophie says, stepping into the doorway. “I’ve got your—oh. I see you’ve met Noah.”

Noah gives her his full smile and says, “Just helping Victoria get her things inside.”

Sophie turns to me and says, “One of the many reasons we love this guy. Always looking out for us.”

I nod, expecting him to say more. Like how we know each other already, how we went to college together, how I ruined our friendship and smashed it to smithereens.

How I was over the moon for him and did the one thing that was guaranteed to drive us apart—and then never saw him again.

But instead, he gives me a quick glance and says, “I’ll go get the last one from your car,” and hurries out of the room like the building’s on fire.

Escape would be so easy.Just climb into my car and drive as fast as possible down that winding mountain road, back to what’s familiar and safe. In under a minute, I could high-tail it out of here, like I did when I took that awful telemarketing job in college. On that day, I’d made it through exactly three hours of “Dial and smile!” training before erupting into tears and fleeing on my lunch break, never to be seen again. Getting intomy car now means beating that record because I’ve been on this mountain for less than forty-five minutes.

But I can’t leave because I gave Roxy my word. And I need this job.

Plus, the whole point of this exercise is to prove to myself that I can take a leap and challenge myself to grow. And just like my Grandma June used to say,Nothing worth having ever came easy.

Besides,I’ve done scarier things than this.

Like for example, when Noah and I stayed in that creepy motel on our summer road trip after sophomore year. The Tinkerbell Motel had what some people would callpersonality—a bricked-up bathroom window, five deadbolt locks on the door, and gigantic neon signs that filled our room with so much bright pink light that it felt like we were inside a lava lamp. I’d barely slept a wink in that place, certain that we’d walked right into an episode ofThe X-Filesand would end up featured on a murder podcast. Noah, however, had slept like a rock in the bed across from mine, the blissful slumber of a man not concerned about being chopped up into tiny pieces and fed to alligators in the adjacent reptile park. Shaking my head, I force that memory back down where it belongs, way down deep with all the other feelings I had for Noah Valentine.

Because I definitely shouldn’t revisit any of those feelings now. Especially the ones that leave me weak-kneed.

Sophie fills me in on all things space camp as she and Noah give me a tour of the buildings: a research lab that looks like something NASA would have, a cafeteria with big floor-to-ceiling windows, an administrative building with offices and meeting spaces. Noah barely says a word as we walk, his face impossible to read. Is he annoyed that I’m here? Angry? Something else? He opens the door for us and avoids my gaze as Sophie leads me inside the admin building at the center of thecampus. It’s clearly the newest, with a high-ceilinged lobby and stairs that lead to offices above. A small library and conference room are tucked into one branch of the main floor, along with a lounge and kitchenette.

Sophie explains that we’ve been granted access to everything on the main floor, including a conference room to use as our office. Painted white and filled with modern Swedish-style furniture, it’s the coziest room we’ve seen so far. When Sophie sits on the sofa, Noah and I sit in the chairs on either side of her. Already, it feels like we’re opposing forces. Each time we make eye contact, he gives me a tight smile or averts his gaze like he’s equal parts annoyed and flabbergasted.

Because they’re old pros at this, Sophie and Noah have already created a schedule of activities for each day. Noah pulls out a three-inch binder that is no doubt his library for all things outdoorsy and kid-appropriate. He hands me a printout that immediately makes my stomach twist into knots.

“Most of this isn’t set in stone,” Noah says, leaning back in his chair. I try to ignore the line of his long legs, his full lips and sharp jaw. When he drags his fingers over his day-old beard stubble, I feel a tug low in my belly that is definitely not work appropriate.

What on earth is wrong with me?

His eyes dart to mine, and my heart leaps into my throat. I shift my gaze back to the paper in front of me and will my eyeballs to stay right there on the activities list, between Frisbee golf and hiking trails.

---