Page 1 of Delicious

Chapter

One

Ican tell whenever the Jeep has had enough. And apparently, the hour and some change drive from the suburbs of Akron to the Morgan Swamp Preserve has done her in for today. At least, enough that getting a hotel for the night rather than driving back is starting to become a real possibility, instead of something I try to ward off with crossed fingers and muttered prayers whenever I pet my Jeep’s hood like a dog’s head.

But at least she’s brought me here, and hopefully with a few hours of a break while I photograph whatever I can for the preserve’s new website, my Jeep will be good to get us back home. “Hopefully,” I mutter, rummaging through my camera bag. While the air outside still carries the nip of early spring, it’s late enough in the year that I’ve discarded most of my jackets and long, warm clothing in favor of airier, lighter outfits.

Though, today is a bit different, given that I’m in a literalswamp.I’m wearing a pair of leggings under my denim shorts, and I’m glad that they’re lightweight enough I can barely feel them. My hiking boots hadn’t been pried out of their box in months, and they remind me of that every time I flex my toes against the empty space at the front of my shoes. While I’d givenin and just worn a brown, faded tee, I had at least compromised for a light jacket to put over top of it, just in case the temperature dips.

Which it has a nasty habit of doing, given where I am and my normal luck.

“Okay,” I mumble, pulling out a few of my favorite lenses from the bag along with my camera on its long strap. I don’t intend to lug the whole bag with me, but there’s also no way I’m coming back for more supplies unless I absolutely have to. Especially once I’m miles into the preserve with sore, tired feet and the distant regret of hating exercise like I hate taking vitamins.

With one foot, I open my door, pushing it more than kicking it open before I slither to the ground. I pocket my keys and phone the moment I’m out, and turn to pull out my camera as well, the lenses weighing heavy in one of my back pockets. It’s not the most comfortable arrangement, since it means my keys dig into my hip whenever I bend. But it’s better than carrying most of my stuff with me instead of having my hands free for a quick picture.

“There, there, Miss Roxie Hart,” I tell my Jeep, giving the red exterior another quick pat. “Just take it easy for a bit so we can get home.Please, make sure we get home.” I stress the word, as if my Jeep can hear me. If it could, I have no doubt it would take issue with the fact I’d named ‘her’ after one of my favorite musical characters, from my absolute favorite show of all time. Checking one more time to make sure everything is in my pockets, I turn to look for the path in the afternoon sun. I hope that I’ll find one that will take me deeper into the preserve, instead of skirting around it.

But with only one to choose from, all I can do is cross my fingers and hope. The small, open lot has four cars other than my own, but I don’t see anyone as I walk, camera strap aroundmy neck as I hold the camera itself in my hands to fiddle with the settings. My steps meander as I do, and I have to glance up more than once so I don’t walk off the trail into the already lengthening, thickening grass.

But it can’t be helped. If I don’t set things up now for the level of light and other natural factors of the preserve, then I’ll have to do it later. Most likely causing me to miss the shot of mylife.

Or so past, tragic experience tells me.

Like the pictures I’d seen online when I’d gotten the email offer to come out here and take pictures for an article on the preserve in a local magazine and the revamp of their website, Morgan Swamp isgorgeous. Sparse trees dot either side of the trail, with clumps of grasses and other flora springing up in clumps, instead of just all over. I pause a few times at particularly chaotic arrangements of grass and flowers, snapping a few pictures and glancing at them to see how happy I am with the results.

In the end, I fiddle with things a little more, switch out the lens for one in my back pocket, and keep going. My goal is to find an animal, or a group of animals. Viewers always connect more with animals than weeds—even when they’re so pretty. So, if I could somehow find one of the elusive river otters that call this place home, I’ll be set for life. As would the preserve, in my opinion. But I also know the chances of seeing the bevy, or even one, are incredibly small.

So with that in mind, I make sure to take pictures of any interesting flowers or plants I see. I even give the same attention to intriguing formations of trees. Some of them are downed and rotting, with the swamp a backdrop to them like a scene from some eerie, atmospheric horror movie. Though, in my memory, the only horror movie I’ve seen that took place in a swamp isAnaconda,and I ward off thoughts of giant snakes before I pivot in place and march my ass right back to Roxie.

The best thing about my work is how much I love it. Though, when I look up what has to be hours later to find the sun starting to dip below the horizon, I blink a few times and marvel at the fact I hadn’t realized I’d been out here long enough to be edging in on sunset. Loving my job makes losing track of time rather easy, though. With a sigh, I let the camera hang from its strap as I look around to see where I’ve ended up.

Yep, I’m nowhere near where I started. That’s clear the moment my eyes land on the edge of the dock leading into the marshland beyond. The one that’s had me captivated for probably the last hour as I try to find theperfectshot of frogs making their way from lily pad to branch and back again.

“Well, crap,” I mutter, treading back off the dock to the trail itself. I’m pretty sure I know where I came from, at least, but if I want to get back before it’s well and truly dark, then I need to go now instead of?—

The person running into me knocks me off balance just as easily as they knock away my train of thought. I stagger, hand on my camera, but the man doesn’t stop or slow down. He just turns to me, a look of irritation on his pale, sweat-shiny face as his long strides create immediate distance between us.

Thankfully, however, a tree proves to be my lifeline, and before I can trip over my own feet as I try to regain my balance, my hand darts out for the nearest trunk. My fingernails dig into the bark, and when I feel a touch on my waist, I nearly fall all over again.

“I’m so sorry.” The person retracts their hand instantly, lifting both in surrender as I turn.I want to take your picture, is the immediate thought that flits through my brain, and my artistic side clicks to life like a lightbulb, rendering me momentarily rudely silent.

He’s notconventionallyattractive. That’s the first thing I notice. His face is just a touch too angular; his eyes just a littletoo big. But they’re blue in a way I don’t normally see outside of editing apps, with lashes that would make most girls—me included—sigh with envy. His blond hair is messy, half of it stuck together with sweat and brushed back from his pale face. As I stare at him, he doesn’t move, like a deer in headlights.

Or, on second thought, with his eyes on mine and his hands raised in surrender, it’s like I’m the petrified deer about to bolt. Is it politeness? I can’t help but wonder if he’s like this to every girl he meets alone in the middle of a swamp. With a jolt, my brain drags me back to the moment, and the almost puppy-like look on his face.

“Why are you sorry?” I ask, turning to look at the retreating man on my other side. “He’s the one that ran into me. Unless he’s your friend.”

“He’s not,” the man tells me quickly, in a voice as quiet as the crickets around us. “You’re not lost, are you?” He glances toward the man almost wistfully before lowering his hands to shove them in his pockets. “Do you need help getting out of here?”

“No,” I murmur, shaking my head as I look him over. As I’d noted before, he’s not “model pretty.” Not in the normally accepted way, at least. But something about him makes me loathe to look away. And for some reason, my brain tells me we have to keep looking at him, and that I can’t let him get out of my sight while he’s around.

Somehow, it doesn’t quite feel like attraction. At least, not completely. It feels more like some of my other jobs. The ones where wild animals had been around, and I’d always needed to keep at least a little of my attention on, just in case I needed to climb a tree or jump in a vehicle with little to no warning.

Except, it makes no sense for my brain to think that way around a person instead of a tiger.

“It’s getting dark,” the man says, nodding his chin toward the setting sun through the tall, spindly trees that line this partof the trail. “And it’s easy to get lost out here. Are you sure you don’t need any help?”

“I’m sure,” I promise him, putting one hand over my heart like the Girl Scout I used to be while I hold the other up in a three-fingered scout salute. “On my honor, I know how to get back and I won’t drown in the marsh.”

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