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Weirdly, it’s still comforting.
“How did the others get by?” I hiss.
“It was probably out hunting then.”
We take tiny baby steps along the edge of the trail. I’d like to scooch over and off-road it, but that would involve taking my eyes off the owl. It never stops watching us. I don’t know much about wild animals, but I’m pretty sure sustained, direct eye contact is never good.
All my systems are malfunctioning: I’m shaking, my heart’s going wild, and my lungs seem to be turning on and off again.
“I’m freaking out.” Grant’s probably aware of that, since my fingers are digging so deep into his arm I’m going to leave a bruise, but I can’t loosen them.
“Everything’s okay,” he soothes. “He’s not going to attack you.”
“Do you have bird ESP? You don’t know that.”
“I’ll protect you.”
I really don’t know how he could. Still, a tiny sliver of tautness inside me loosens. Not my fingers—those keep their death grip on Grant’s arm. I don’t take my eyes off the owl, either. I’m no dummy. It will strike the second I’m anything less than vigilant.
I don’t take a full breath until we’re out of sight of the greathorned menace. I think. It could have better eyesight than I do, and it’s still watching us through the trees.
Grant turns to me, and I finally release him. “I’m sorry about your arm.”
“Don’t be. Are you okay?”
My heart’s racing, I think I pulled something in my Grant-gripping hand, and that owl will most likely visit me in my nightmares tonight.
“Pretty much. Can I ask you a question? As a professional outdoorsman?”
His mouth flattens, but he nods. “Fire away.”
“Is there a part where this is supposed to get fun? People do this for fun, right?”
His smile chases away the last of my panic. “It’s my new goal to show you something fun before this trip is over.”
Past him, Mitchell appears in the distance for his check-in. About a hundred feet and one big bird too late. I wave at him, and he carries on again.
My attention refocuses on Grant. “You must like a challenge.”
His eyes spark. “I love them.”
EIGHT
GRANT
I don’t watchreality shows. I don’t like the concept of witnessing someone else’s uncomfortable and embarrassing moments for the sake of my own entertainment. They have zero appeal, and I try to avoid even listening to recaps when coworkers chat about the most recent reality show disaster.
So explain to me why I can’t look away as Lila prepares to learn how to fish.
We set up camp in a denser forest than we did last night, tucked away in the trees. Thankfully for Lila’s sore back, we’ve left the lava flows behind for now, and our sleeping area should be relatively rock-free. We had lunch, explored the small lake, and are getting ready to catch dinner.
When Deena asked who wanted to fish, I expected Lila to decline. No part of what I know of her tells me she would enjoy either the standing around waiting or the end result of this endeavor. But she volunteered right along with the rest of us, despite the little curl of distaste along her mouth.
I admit, her physical beauty attracted me immediately, but her tenacity is knocking me out. She knows what she wants, and she’ll do whatever it takes to get it, even if personally, thethought of doing it makes her want to run the other way. Failure’s not an option for her. It’s impossible not to appreciate that.
Mitchell and Deena set up the collapsible fishing poles and handed them out, leaving us to find spots along the rocky shore. We’re using floats, both for the more obvious nature of them, and to try to keep the line out of the rocks in the shallows.
I’m absolutely delaying, fiddling with my reel while Mitchell shows Lila how to cast. She copies his demonstration in jerky motions, but she’s starting to get the hang of it.
