Page 8 of The Followers

Look what came up on my Facebook memories from this day last year! You’re welcome, sweetie!

It was a picture of Molly and Scott, taken on the day they met.

Molly’s first impulse was to share the picture in her Instagram stories, but she didn’t want a repeat of their huge, nearly-relationship-ending argument when she’d shared the picture after their engagement. Instead, she leaned against the kitchen counter, smiling as she remembered the moment captured in the photo.

Ayla had convinced Molly to come on an overnight river rafting trip in Durango with a group of other women. Right before they set out, she’d shoved Molly next to their guide and snapped the picture. Molly had her hair in a messy bun and a green life jacket over her swimsuit and shorts. She was grinning like a maniac, holding an oar to the sky like a knight wielding a sword. Scott, on the other hand, looked flat-out annoyed, tension radiating from his shoulders and clenched jaw.

A few hours after that picture had been taken, Molly was on the river and had forgotten all about the awkward moment, determined to have an amazing time despite the unfriendly guide. Being away from her normal life, cut off from the internet, was liberating. She hadn’t left Chloe for a single night since her birth. She felt herself expanding, enjoying the company of these funny, strong women, the world unfurling around her as they drifted down the river in the summer sunshine.

“He keeps looking at you,” Ayla said as they stopped for lunch at a pull-out point along the river, motioning to their grumpy river guide. “I think he likes you.”

Molly shook her head. “He does not. He doesn’t even talk. He’s probably illiterate.”

“With that body, who cares,” Ayla said in a low voice.

They camped on a sandy bank for the night, the river guides—Scott and two others, younger and less experienced—making a Dutch oven dinner. Everyone helped set up the tents, and after dinner they sat around the fire, drinking cold beers and chatting.

“He’s still looking at you,” Ayla whispered, nudging Molly.

Molly noticed his eyes following her over the fire, watching as she told stories and laughed with her friends. It made her self-conscious—that intense stare, almost a glare—and she wondered if her laughter was irritating him and ruining the ambiance. Too bad for him, she told herself and continued to enjoy the evening.

As the fire died down and the stars blinked on overhead, people headed off to their sleeping bags. Molly found herself sitting around the fire with Ayla and Scott. He surprised her by starting to talk, describing the geology and history of the area they were traveling through on the river, and she wondered if he was simply uncomfortable in crowds.

He told them about a lookout they could walk to. “If anyone wants to come, I can take you up there. It’s about a twenty-minute hike.”

“Sounds fun,” Molly said. “You want to come, too, Ayla?”

But Ayla yawned in an exaggerated fashion and stretched her arms over her head. “You go ahead.”

That’s how Molly ended up perched on a peak overlooking the Animas River, chatting with Scott the hot river guide. He was easy to talk to, all alone in the dark, his voice vibrating between them and doing strange things to her insides.

It only took a few minutes to discover they had some things in common—both single parents, each with a big dog and a little girl. His wife had passed away when his daughter was just a baby, so they both knew the challenges of raising a child alone. That got Molly talking about Chloe, how she hated leaving her but how wonderful it had been to get away. She hadn’t realized how trapped she’d felt for the past four years, how limited.

Then she flushed. “You probably think I’m a horrible mother, saying that about my child. I adore her, she’s the most important thing in my life, it’s just...”

“You’ll never be free again, no matter what,” Scott said, nodding. His eyes were a dark, dark blue, almost black in the dim light.

“Yeah.”

As they continued talking, the night turning cool, Molly waited for him to make a move, to take her hand or kiss her. She assumed he brought a lot of women here, that this was his way of getting a little noncommittal action. She didn’t really mind. But a couple hours passed in conversation, and he never touched her.

He did watch her face. He listened intently, seriously. And over time, his gaze moved from her eyes and landed firmly on her lips.

But he still didn’t kiss her.

Which was fine, because Molly was a thirty-year-old single mom and the last thing she needed was a make-out session with a gorgeous, outdoorsy guy she’d never see again.

Except when she put it that way, it sounded like exactly what she needed.

When he suggested they return to camp, she covered up her disappointment with a big smile and thanked him for bringing her. They headed back through the darkness, Scott leading the way. A few hundred yards from camp, she slipped on some loose gravel, and he turned to steady her. She sucked in a breath at his touch, his warm, rough hand gripping her arm, fully encircling it—and she wasn’t a small, willowy thing.

He was so big. Tall enough, broad enough, that he made her feel like a tiny person. She wasn’t used to that—she had always felt taller and curvier and louder than a woman was supposed to be. But Scott seemed to dwarf her, not only with his size, but with his silence.

After a few breathless moments, she told herself be brave and lifted her chin, staring into his eyes, black in the darkness, hoping he would make a move and terrified he wouldn’t.

His lips met hers in an ever-so-soft and ever-so-brief contact, then he pulled back. Molly wanted more, so she reached her arms around his neck and closed the gap. Within seconds, the kiss intensified, and a deep ache spread through Molly’s stomach and down her legs.

His hands circled her waist, ran up her back, and buried themselves in her hair. She leaned back, exposing her neck, and he took the hint, kissing her there with an urgency she hadn’t expected. But who was she to argue? It had been so, so long since she’d been held by a man. Her fingers itched to feel him, and she reached under his T-shirt.

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