“Maybe. I don’t mind.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He runs a hand through his hair and looks suddenly nervous. “I mean, you’re an excellent teacher. It can’t hurt to get a refresher, that’s all.”

“Oh, okay.”

We keep walking in silence, and about twenty minutes later, we come to a fallen log that stretches across a narrow inlet. The water isn’t deep, but it’s wider than I can comfortably step across.

“I can find another way around,” I say, but Sawyer’s already moving.

“Here,” he says, stepping onto the log first and turning back to offer me his hand. “It’s sturdy. I’ll help you across.”

I hesitate for a second, then take his hand. The contact sends electricity straight up my arm. His palm is warm, and his fingers are strong as they wrap around mine. I try to focus on stepping carefully onto the log, but all I can think about is how his thumb brushes across my knuckles, steadying me.

“Easy,” he says softly, and his voice does things to my insides that have nothing to do with balance.

I make it across without falling into the water, but he doesn’t let go of my hand right away. We stand on the other side for a moment, his fingers still laced with mine, and I swear I can feel my pulse everywhere he’s touching me.

“Thanks,” I manage, my voice slightly breathless.

“Anytime,” he says, and when he finally releases my hand, I immediately miss the warmth.

We continue around the lake, and I find myself walking a little closer to him than before, close enough that our arms brush occasionally when the trail narrows. Each accidental contact makes my skin tingle.

“Oh, my goodness,” I say suddenly, stopping in my tracks. “Look at that.”

Ahead of us, tucked back in the trees, are the ruins of an old log cabin. Most of the roof has caved in, and moss grows on the remaining walls, but I can still see the stone foundation and the remains of what must have been a chimney.

“Someone lived here,” I breathe, already moving toward it. “This is incredible.”

Sawyer follows me off the main trail, ducking under low branches. “Any idea how old it might be?”

I examine the construction, the way the logs are notched, and the style of the stonework. “Based on the building techniques, I’d guess 1890s, maybe early 1900s. Probably built by one of the homesteaders or someone who ran a fishing camp.”

“A fishing camp?”

“This lake would have been perfect for it. Remote enough to feel like wilderness, but accessible. Someone could have guided fishing trips, maybe had a few cabins.” I run my hand along one of the remaining wall logs, imagining the lives that were lived here. “I bet they served fresh trout and told stories around a campfire.”

“You should write a book about this stuff,” Sawyer says. “The way you talk about history… You make it come alive.”

I glance at him, surprised by the sincerity in his voice. “Most people think it’s boring.”

“Most people are idiots.”

That makes me smile. “Present company excluded?”

“I’m occasionally an idiot, but not about this. You have a gift, Reese. You make me care about things I never thought about before.”

Something in his tone makes my chest tight in the best possible way. I turn back to the cabin ruins, mostly to hide the fact that I’m probably blushing.

“Should we eat breakfast here?” he asks. “Seems like the perfect spot for a picnic.”

“The ghost of the cabin owner might join us.”

He grins. “Let him. I brought enough food for three.”

We settle on a flat section of the old foundation, and Sawyer spreads out a blanket. He unpacks sandwiches, fruit, and—as promised—cinnamon rolls.