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Chapter 1
Aspen
The sleek sports car crunches over the gravel parking area, and I step out, my designer heels instantly sinking into the loose rocks. I pause, taking in the sprawling expanse of Camp Silverpine spread out before me like an unkempt wilderness itself.
Ramshackle log cabins with peeling paint and sagging roofs poke out between towering pines. Rusted swing sets and weather-worn canoes litter what was once a lush central activity field, now overgrown with waist-high weeds. The dock extending into the glassy lake is aged and splintered, screaming for repair.
With a resigned sigh, I pull my sunglasses down and scan the neglected property. “Well, Uncle Andrew, you really let the place go after I left, didn’t you?”
Not that I’m surprised. After I was grown and gone, my uncle had shuttered the camp season after season until it eventually closed for good.
But leaving me the keys to this dilapidated kingdom in his will? I shake my head, bemused. Why the hell would a successful marketing consultant like me want the hassle of an outdated summer camp to deal with?
I wander up the winding dirt road that carves through the heart of the grounds. Each familiar sight I pass stirs a nostalgic pang—the cracked amphitheater stage where I performed skits as a kid. The weathered totem poles surrounding the dining hall pavilion. Even the pungent outhouse stench wafting on the breeze.
My gaze drifts to the dense forest canopy where the highest ridgelines are still visible, piercing the sky with their craggy silhouettes. I can practically hear the distant gurgling of the wild river that snaked through the backcountry, its roaring whitewater beckoning my adventurous teenage soul. How many summers did I spend with—
The thought trails off, a sudden flicker of an old, familiar anger flaring within me. I shake my head, dismissing the memory of tousled chestnut hair and those penetrating eyes that once drew me in like a moth to a flame.
Not going there today, Aspen. Not when there’s so much messiness to deal with here as it is.
I keep moving, stepping carefully in my heels. Each ramshackle cabin I pass sparks another rush of memories—that time Billy Jennings got poison ivy all over his ass from the outhouse. Or how Mandy Wilkins sobbed for days after her first breakup. Or that one time when we snuck out after curfew and streaked through the entire campsite, giggling like maniacs while the night watchman chased us back to the cabins.
Good times.
My smile falters as I reach the end of the trail, the dense pines parting to reveal a breathtaking panorama of Silverpine Lake glistening in the fading twilight. The water’s glassy surface reflects the rugged peaks soaring above the cotton candy clouds like sentinels, their snow-capped crowns blazing orange and pink from the setting sun.
Despite the neglected camp around me, this view is just as I remember—majestic, untouched, eternal.
My feet wander down the creaky wooden dock jutting out over the shimmering depths, drawn like a moth to a flame. Kicking off my shoes, I settle on the edge and inhale deeply, that unmistakable scent of campfire smoke and pine resin filling my lungs. The familiar aroma instantly transports me back in time. I’m a gawky teen again, flushed with first loves and the restless thirst for adventure only wild places like this could quench.
Closing my eyes, I finally let myself remember. Zane and me, two kids practically raised in these mountains. We’d been inseparable from the moment he transferred in as a shy new camper. While the others stuck to tame hiking trails and archery ranges, Zane and I were the daredevils constantly pushing boundaries, forging off the map in search of thrills.
Even now, I remember his face so vividly—those piercing hazel eyes, that reckless grin. And later, that same grin hovering over me as we explored far more sensual kinds of adventures in hidden groves and shadowy alcoves away from prying eyes.
God, we were so fearless back then—young, reckless, and completely infatuated with each other.
I sigh heavily, the sound lost in the gentle breeze rippling the glassy waters. If only we could have stayed like that forever, just Zane and Aspen against the world. But of course, that was before—
My jaw tightens, a sudden flare of anger burning away the nostalgic haze. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to banish images of the hurt and humiliation that came after. Of Zane just... vanishing without a word, like our entire history meant nothing to him.
Leaving me shattered with so many unanswered questions.
A loud crunch of boots against the weathered planks jolts me from the bitter memories. My eyes fly open, and there he is, emerging from the shadows like some kind of ghost—because, of course, he’s here now, after all these years.
“I wondered if you’d show up,” I say cooly, feigning nonchalance despite the frantic pounding of my heart. I won’t let him see how his presence still rattles me after all this time.
Zane steps into the waning rays of dusky sunlight, his imposing silhouette utterly unchanged from how I remember. Broad, powerfully built shoulders. That perpetually tousled mane of chestnut hair falling across a chiseled jawline I used to trace with my fingertips. And those hazel eyes, still radiating the same untamed intensity that drew me in so recklessly as a teenager.
Somehow, the wildness of Silverpine seems to have been absorbed directly into Zane’s weathered features. He looks like he was carved from the mountain itself—rugged, elemental, defiant. My throat tightens despite itself.
“Why wouldn’t I?” he responds flatly, his deep voice a gruff rumble. “Your uncle left me fifty percent.”
“I'm surprised they were even able to find you after you disappeared," I retort, unable to mask the bitter edge in my tone.
He shrugs, those thick forearms rippling with the casual movement. "I never went far."
Of course, he didn't. Zane was always too obsessed with his precious outdoors to stray too far from its embrace for long.
