Page 9 of My Star-Crossed Summer

Sophie nods and says, “You won’t get much of a signal out here. There’s a landline in each cabin, and you’re welcome to share that number with anyone who might need to reach you.”

“Oh,” I breathe.Three weeks with no cell service?

“It’s amazing,” she says, as if reading my horrified expression. “You can leave the whole world behind when you come here. Just us and the animals and the stars.” She says this with absolute glee while my stomach clenches like a fist.

Sophie is clearly a Very Outdoorsy Person. Everything about her screamswilderness,from her navy camp-style shirt that has buttons everywhere—on the chest pockets, above the elbows, on little straps that hang below the rolled cuffs—to her sleek hiking pants that are a cross between leggings and cargo pants with zipper pockets on either side. She smells like citronella and has the kind of muscular thighs one earns by climbing over boulders and biking uphill.

Sophie looks right at home in this place. She doesn’t seem one bit concerned about bears, rockslides, or falling into a nest of venomous snakes and not being able to use a cell phone to call for rescue.

I shift in my sandals, thinking that my knit skirt and tank top aren’t the wisest choice in clothing. Sophie’s wearing hiking boots that look like they could carry her right over Everest—and she’s here as the lead admin. From what Roxy told me, Sophie’sjob is mostly mission control, keeping the whole operation running smoothly from behind the scenes.

“This session’s going to be awesome,” she says, and I do admire her enthusiasm. So far, this place’s vibe is likeFriday the 13thmeetsReal Genius, and I’m not sure which part of that is more unsettling. It’s not hard to imagine these genius children pulling some A-level pranks on me—or to imagine any number of threatening creatures lurking out in the woods, waiting to jump out and eat me for dinner. Either way, I’m squarely out of my element, and the urge to run back to my car and drive down the mountain is strong.

But I won’t do that because I can’t let Roxy down. I keep my word, and I can do hard things. I’ve handled clients who were meaner than rabid raccoons, for heaven’s sake—this should be a cinch.It’s only three weeks,I tell myself.You can do anything for three measly weeks.

I take a deep breath, willing myself to relax. But everything in my chest stays wound tight like a spring that’s ready to pop.

“Why don’t you get your things inside and get settled,” Sophie says. “And then we can all meet up to talk about tomorrow’s orientation—say in twenty minutes?”

“Sounds great,” I say, forcing myself to sound chipper.

She gives me a thumbs-up and heads back down the hallway, her boots thumping against the ancient linoleum.

Even her footsteps are confident.

I massage the knot forming near my shoulder, where it always appears when I’m anxious, and open the blinds at my window. My room is on the back side of the building, and because of the steep hillside below, I’m looking straight into the treetops. My new home is a box of wall-to-wall wood paneling that’s just big enough to hold a dresser, a small desk, a single-sized bed, and a chair made from molded plastic. Made up with pale blue linens and a thin coverlet, the bed looks like itbelongs in an old motel. And when I sit on it, the springs make an ungodly screeching sound. Far from fancy, but I’ve stayed in worse—mainly in college, when taking road trips with friends meant staying in the cheapest places we could find.

The tiny bathroom has plain white fixtures and dove-gray linoleum. The only spot of color is a set of mint-green towels that feel like sandpaper. But the room is clean, and there are even tiny hotel-sized bar soaps and a small vase with a cluster of laurel and honeysuckle. Someone’s made an effort to make this room feel cozy—probably Sophie. After splashing some cold water on my face, I run my fingers through my hair to tame the frizz and head outside to unload my car.

As I open the back door and set my first bag on the ground, a deep voice says from behind me, “Hey there. Need a hand with those?”

When I turn towards the voice, I immediately feel like someone’s knocked the wind out of me because—no. Justno.

My mouth falls open as the man standing in front of me arches a brow and puts his hands on his hips, staring at me as if he, too, can’t believe his eyes. Finally, he speaks again in that familiar drawl that rumbles along my spine and turns my knees to jelly.

“Victoria,” he says.

I blink a few times, stunned into silence, because this can’t be. I know those warm hazel eyes, that tousled dark hair, and that roguish grin—they belong to someone I thought I’d never see again. My chest tightens, and my heart pounds so hard my ears tingle. Is it too late to climb back into my car and leave? I give myself a sharp pinch on the wrist because surely I’m dreaming.

Ouch.I rub the spot on my wrist where the skin is thin and tingling. Not dreaming.

“Noah,” I wheeze, because no other words will come out. My brain is a tangle of thoughts, but none of them explain why Noah Valentine is standing three feet in front of me, on top of a mountain in one of the most remote parts of North Carolina.

I should have a better chance of being struck by lightning than to bump into this man again. And right now, I’m wishing a bolt would shoot down from this wide blue sky and knock me right off this mortal plane.

“It is you,” he says. His brow furrows like he’s not sure how to feel about this either. He shoves his hands into his jeans pockets and says, “It’s good to see you again.”

Is it, though?I feel like a bunny caught in headlights. How on earth can I get out of this situation? Spending three weeks with genius children in a research lab on a remote mountaintop is one thing, but staying here with Noah Valentine? That’s a different thing entirely. This job doesn’t come with hazard pay, but if Noah’s here, it absolutely should—because this man wrecked me once, and I have no doubt he can do it again.

My eyes trace the long lines of his body and rest on his big hands, and my brain helpfully reminds me of the way they felt tangled in my hair and gripping my waist on the last night that we saw each other.

Suddenly, it’s a hundred degrees on this mountain.

I haven’t seen Noah since we were in college together—six years ago? Seven?—and already my heart’s threatening to beat right out of my chest and flop around between our feet like a fish.

“Let me help you with that,” he says, reaching for my bag. His shoulders are wide, his thighs as big as tree trunks. The sleeves of his dark green shirt are rolled up to his elbows, revealing a small tattoo curling along the inside of his forearm. The wiry Noah that I knew before has been replaced by this man who’s ripped everywhere, whose arm muscles flex in an almost torrid way as he lifts the bag—the heaviest one, with my shoes—andcarries it inside the cabin. I try my best to ignore the snug fit of his jeans and his perfectly sculpted butt as I follow him inside.

Because of course Noah Valentine is somehow hotter than he was in college. By a degree of ten. Or maybe a thousand.

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