Page 19 of Christmas at Hart's Ridge

On the other hand, it changed everything about how I saw Bethany.

Because Bethany Albright wasn’t Ethan’s girl. She wasn’t anyone’s girl. We could kiss all we wanted, and it wasn’t anyone’s business but our own.

And that…that took the whole second shot of whiskey to come to terms with. The third shot made it seem like the best idea I’d ever had.

It was perfect. Bethany was going back to New York after the New Year and I was heading down to Georgia in early April. That gave us a month. A month to get whatever this was out of our systems—yes,our, because I knew I wasn’t alone in this aggravating attraction. It was too big, too strong, to be one-sided. And the way she had kissed me, urgency and need in every stroke of her tongue, grabbing my hair to hold me close to her…shit, I was getting hard just thinking about it.

And then, when our time was up, we would part ways amicably. No hard feelings. No strings tying us to each other.

Just the way I liked it.

Chapter 7

Bethany

“BethanyAlbright,whereareyou going in those hiking boots?” Mom demanded, pushing open the screen door to join me on the porch.

“Hiking,” I said, stating what I thought was the obvious.

It was a glorious morning and I was in a foul mood. I had spent the hour since breakfast hurtling between aroused and furious every time I thought about Luke Buchanan. Kissing me. Lecturing me. Worst of all, letting me walk away. The fucking gall. If I spent one more second thinking about it, I was going to throw something. I needed to get outside andmove.

Fortunately, Hart’s Ridge was only a couple miles off the Appalachian Trail. In fact, hikers called North Carolina one of the most beautiful sections. So I’d heard, anyway. Despite having spent the first sixteen years of my life here, I had never hiked the ridges and peaks that surrounded our valley town. But today I was going to remedy that.

I double knotted the boot laces and then tapped my toes together, admiring the view. The tawny leather and cherry red laces never failed to put a smile on my face. It was so different than the ballet shoes I was used to. Different in a good way. After so long being just one thing, I welcomed the variety.

“Hiking? Is that a good idea?” Mom asked.

I got to my feet, brushing off my butt. I shouldn’t have bothered. Mom was a demon about cleaning, and that included the front porch. Not a speck of dirt made it onto my hiking pants.

“I told you, Mom. Dr. Moss said hiking would help strengthen my ankle and make the ligaments more flexible. I think she’s right. She was super pleased with my progress at my last appointment.”

Mom sniffed. “New York mountains aren’t the same as North Carolina mountains.”

She wasn’t wrong. Mount Marcy, the tallest mountain in New York, topped out at just over five thousand feet. The mountains closest to Hart’s Ridge hovered over six thousand feet. But I had stuck to the easier trails in New York, not wanting to risk my ankle or my ass, and I planned to do the same here.

“I’ll be fine. It’s not like I’m doing Hart Mountain.” Also known as the Widow-Maker. The trail ended halfway up the mountain, and from there it was a bushwhack to the top. Three people had died there—one from a fall, two from exposure—and plenty more had been injured or lost. I didn’t aim to be one of them.

“Don’t worry, Mom. I’m heading to the balds. Roan Mountain.” I figured the balds, so named for their tree-less ridgeline, was a safe bet for my first hike in the Appalachian Mountains. Hard to get lost when the view went all the way to Tennessee. Plus, it was a simple trail. Only five miles, out and back.

And still she said, “By yourself? What if you get lost?”

Annoyed as I was at her lack of faith in me, I still didn’t want to make her worry. “All Trails.” I waved my phone. “I downloaded the map on the app. Anyway, there’s better cell service on the ridgeline than here in Hart’s Ridge. Seriously, Mom, don’t worry, okay? I’ll be fine.”

She shook her head, eyebrows furrowed. I could read her expression well enough to know she was torn between supporting me and protecting me.

“I just don’t understand why you would risk it,” she said. “Now, when you’re so close to getting your real life back. It’s wonderful that hiking helped your rehab, but surely there are better ways. Something that doesn’t run the chance of tripping on a rock and breaking a bone.”

There it was again. How many times had I heard some variation ofyour real life? My parents, other dancers, fans. Always the same assumption that my life was on hold until I could dance again. Like I was nothing without it.

Funny, because I had never considered my life one dimensional. Dance was what I did and who I was, but I’d never put much thought into what that meant. I was too busy living it to analyze it. It was only now, when everyone was telling me ballet was all I was, that it occurred to me I might want to be something more.

There was no part of me that regretted dancing. Not one single moment. I couldn’t imagine my life without ballet, and I didn’t want to try. But maybe…maybe it wasn’t enough anymore. Maybe I wanted balletand…something.

I didn’t know what that extra something was, or even how I would fit it into my already crammed schedule once training and rehearsals forSwan Lakebegan in earnest. But I was on vacation. I didn’t need to figure it all out right now. Today, I just wanted to go for a hike. That was enough.

“Everything is a risk,” I said. “I could slip getting out of the shower. Or fall going down the stairs.” Or swerve to miss a deer and end up in a ditch. For example. I cleared my throat. “Can I take your car?”

Because that was the other thing. If I had the car, then it would be out of her sight. I hadn’t told her about the dent, and I didn’t plan to until I could give her the bad news with the good—the good news being that I was getting it fixed. Hopefully, that would be tomorrow. I was meeting Ethan at the auto repair shop to get an estimate of time and cost. Fingers crossed it would only take two or three days to fix, because I had the feeling Ethan was going to get tired of being my chauffeur sooner rather than later.

---