A Family Under the Stars Read online

  Charlotte peeked up to see a head full of thick, brown hair, damp and slicked back from his forehead. Hell. The guy was completely perfect. And she was trapped in tent with him and her own racing heartbeat.

  Actually, she wasn’t trapped at all. She could unzip this thing and walk out any time she liked. As long as she didn’t mind getting electrocuted or pelted in the face with icy water. But a bit of fresh air would clear her head. “I’ll just run out and grab some plates and utensils real quickly. Do you know which box they’re in?”

  “I don’t think leaving shelter right now is a good idea,” Alex said. “I know you probably take table settings and all that fancy dining stuff seriously, but maybe your readers would be interested in how good campfire meals taste when eaten straight from the pan.”

  “You mean with our fingers?”

  “That’s how people used to do it before they invented silverware.”

  “Right.” The last thing she wanted was for him to think she was some sort of stuck-up princess. Actually, she shouldn’t want him to think about her at all. “Here, you first.”

  “Wait, tell me what all you foraged,” he said, one eyebrow raised as he looked at the skillet. “Not that I don’t trust you, but there are plenty of poisonous plants growing around here and...”

  “Actually, I studied a book on local plants before I came out. I didn’t use anything I wasn’t completely sure about.”

  “Of course you didn’t,” he chuckled. “You’re a rule follower and a list maker.”

  “And I’m an excellent packer,” she said, trying to sound lighthearted while reminding herself that the girls would be perfectly fine without her for one night. But when he squatted down next to her, his brow wasn’t the only thing raised. Her pulse had skyrocketed and she was in danger of becoming lightheaded.

  “What does that mean?” he asked.

  “It means that I brought some dried seasonings with me in case we couldn’t find any.”

  “It really is all about the staging and presentation, isn’t it?”

  “Your tone is implying that I’m some sort of big faker.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  This guy must have some serious trust issues. Not that she didn’t. But she didn’t go around voicing them to strangers. She doubted he was trying to insult her directly, but she was getting the feeling he didn’t think too highly of her. “Not if I’m honest about the added ingredients,” she said, wishing she didn’t care about whether he liked her or not. But wanting to fit in and belong was an old habit that resurfaced in stressful moments like these. “I did find ginger, which I was expecting, as well as shortstyle onions and camas. I brought along the dried mustard, though, and the rosemary and parsley for the vegetables.”

  He studied the small roundish-shaped bulbs she’d browned in the pan along with the fish. Charlotte had never eaten camas before, but her research said it had a potato-like flavor. He popped one into his mouth and chewed for a few seconds before swallowing. “I have to say, I’m pretty impressed.”

  Her heart fluttered against her rib cage at the compliment. This was why she cooked. Because even if people didn’t appreciate her, they always appreciated her food.

  She looked at the way the light sprinkling of hair covered his chest before tapering down into a narrow line over his stomach and almost admitted that she was pretty impressed herself.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and prayed for strength because being surrounded by all this nature was sure bringing out her most uninhibited instincts. Not only had she never eaten straight out of a pan, she’d also never shared a meal with a half-dressed man.

  He sat beside her and she put the skillet between them, thankful they both were facing the zippered door and not each other. Their temporary shelter had been advertised as a three-man tent, but there was barely enough room for her overactive imagination in this small space, let alone another person.

  He ate a bite. “Wow. This is good.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I mean really good.”

  “Did you think it wouldn’t be?”

  “I didn’t want to doubt you, but Com says to never trust a skinny chef.”

  “I’m not sure if that’s supposed to be a compliment.”

  He let his grayish-green eyes travel over her again and she felt her nipples tighten in response. “It’s definitely a compliment.”

  “Which part?” she asked. “The not trusting me part or the too-skinny part?”

  “I didn’t say too skinny. In fact, I’d say you were just right.”

  Suddenly, this tent felt like a portable steam sauna. Tiny curls sprang to life around her hairline and she adjusted her elastic headband—which wasn’t as sturdy as her normal tortoiseshell one, but went better with this casual outfit—to keep the wayward things from tickling her face.

  They needed to get back to a neutral topic.

  “Speaking of your grandfather, Commodore gave me a little history of the waterfall and some of the local legends.” There, that was a safe enough subject.

  “Are you sure you mean Com?”

  “Yes. That was your grandfather who drove me up here to meet you, right?”

  “Yeah, but the old guy barely says more than two sentences at a time if he doesn’t know you. And if he does know you, you’ll wish he only said two sentences.”

  “Really? He talked quite a bit, actually, about how he and your grandmother moved to Idaho after he got out of the Army because they wanted to start a family away from the...what does he call the suburbs?”

  “The land of maggots on a grizzly bear?” he suggested.

  “Yes, something like that. Anyway, he said his bride fell in love with the falls the moment she set her eyes on it and told him she’d rather have a boat than a house.”

  “Now that definitely surprises me. Not his description of the suburbs, of course. I won’t tell you what he calls it when he’s not in mixed company. But Com never brings up Granola. Of course, he never lets anyone talk him into smearing lip balm on himself, either, so maybe he doesn’t mind you too much.”

  “Doesn’t mind me too much? Is that supposed to be another compliment?”

  “It is.” He took another bite of fish and rolled one of the camas in her direction.

  “Who’s Granola?” Charlotte asked.

  “That’s what I used to call my grandma. She passed away when I was seven and it’s just been me, Com and my dad ever since.”

  His eyes turned the same shade as the moss-covered rocks she’d slipped on near the riverbank earlier when she’d been cleaning Trouty. And if she wasn’t careful, she could find herself slipping straight into their hidden depths, as well.

  All her life, she’d looked for human connections, for someone to open up and show themselves to her. That’s what happened when one’s parents ditched their only child to be raised by hired caregivers. But Charlotte had learned with her ex-husband that emotions could be faked. Tenderness could be imitated. And women searching for love and acceptance could easily be fooled. It was the reason she cherished her relationship with her daughters so much. They were the only real things in her life, the only people who needed her and wanted her as much as she needed and wanted them.

  Charlotte took a bite of the potato-like vegetable, hoping the less she said, the more he’d tell her about himself. The guy hadn’t been much of a talker, initially, and if there was anything that reminded Charlotte of her lonely childhood, it was long silences. She needed to get him to say something. After all, they had nothing but time out here until someone found them. Yet Alex didn’t seem to want to be the focus of the conversation.

  “What about you?” he asked. “Where did you grow up?”

  “Mostly in San Francisco. I attended boarding school in Connecticut and then back to Stanford for college. Have y
ou lived in Sugar Falls all your life?”

  “Yep. I went to the University of Idaho in Moscow, but I usually came home on the weekends.”

  “Have you ever wanted to leave? To travel or live somewhere else?”

  “Nope.”

  It was going to be a long evening and an awkward night if the man refused to add much to the discussion.

  “I recently read this book called Our Natural Souls...” Charlotte paused briefly when she saw Alex roll his eyes to the roof of the tent. What was that dramatic response all about? “Anyway, the author talked about how important it is for everyone to go on a journey to find themselves.”

  “Hmm,” was his only reply. An awkward silence grew between them and she wondered how they would ever get through the night if the man refused to talk. He ate in silence while she pulled her journal out of her small pack and began writing some notes on her preparation of the fish, making adjustments for the cooking time based on how close the pan had sat over the campfire.

  An hour must have gone by before Charlotte had run out of things to write to about. It grew darker outside and he switched on a battery-powered lantern, fiddling with the settings. When she couldn’t stand the silence any longer, she looked over at him and saw a fleck of dried rosemary stuck to his bottom lip.

  “Here.” She reached out her hand to wipe it off. But when her finger touched his mouth, a spark sizzled to life inside her and she drew her arm back quickly. Based on the way his head whipped around, she wondered if he’d felt it, too. “Sorry. You had something...uh...right there.”

  He rubbed the back of his hand over his mouth. “Thanks.”

  “So what do people normally do this time of evening out in the middle of nowhere?” she asked.

  “That would depend on if we weren’t locked together inside a tent.” The way his deep voice said the words made her think of all the things they could do inside said tent. And the way their bodies could become locked together.

  She shook her head. “What about outside?”

  “The best part of camping is being outside,” Alex said, his eyes flickering to life. “There’s the campfire, which is where all the best stories are told. There’s just something so basic and natural about sitting in front of a roaring fire, it makes people want to open up and let their guard down. Plus, food tastes better when it’s prepared and eaten out in the open, the way our ancestors had to make it.”

  His voice was an invitation to relax and listen to the passion he felt for the land he clearly loved. “Then there are the games. When I was a kid, we’d play capture the flag, send codes with flashlight signals, go on nighttime scavenger hunts—which forces you to rely on your other senses since it’s too dark to see. And don’t even get me started on the stars. When I’m back at my house in Sugar Falls, I can go a week without looking up and giving the constellations a second thought. But out here, you’re surrounded by the night sky. Being blanketed by all the twinkling lights is better than any old comforter back home, and you fall asleep thinking about all the adventure and beauty that awaits you the next day.”

  “No wonder people come out here to find themselves,” Charlotte said.

  “You know all that finding yourself nonsense is only for people who are lost.” He took a sip of water out of the Nalgene bottle he’d brought into the tent earlier. Then he offered her a drink. She didn’t realize how thirsty she was, but sharing the container somehow felt more intimate than everything else they’d shared so far.

  She tried not to think of where his lips had touched and instead thought back to her years at boarding school, and before that to her childhood with parents who were never around. “Maybe all of us are a little lost.”

  “I’m not.” His voice was firm, his eyes focused intently on the seam above the tent’s entrance. “I’ve always known that I belong in Sugar Falls and I don’t need a burned-out political speech writer making money off her book about some vacation-turned-spiritual-journey she took thirty years ago telling me what I already know.”

  He seemed pretty familiar with the book, which confused Charlotte, because most people raved about Our Natural Souls. “But the author is so brilliant and what she says about finding one’s inner home is completely moving. It really changed my life.”

  “The author was a complete phony and a BS artist.”

  The anger in his voice made Charlotte gasp. “How do you know?”

  “Because she was my mother.”

  * * *

  “The rain’s let up,” Alex said, rising to his feet before Charlotte could wrap her pretty little head around the admission he’d never spoken out loud to anyone else. “I think I’m going to check on the dry boxes and see which supplies we can fit in the tent for later tonight.”

  The wet flannel of his shirt was no colder on his skin than the chill he’d gotten when she’d first brought up the book that was never mentioned in his house. Still, he shrugged on the clammy fabric and walked out into the drizzle before he said something else too revealing.

  Surviving the elements wasn’t a problem for him. Unfortunately, surviving the close quarters with a beautiful lady who wanted to talk about journeys and changes in perspective and all that emotional crap made him pray for a rescue chopper to drop down from the dark, moonless sky overhead. But no sane pilot would risk that, even if there was a lull in the storm, which there currently was.

  He knew he should’ve listened to his gut and not his grandfather’s damn knee when it came to the weather. If he had, then he wouldn’t be stranded out here all alone with that woman. A woman who made him think about things he’d cut loose long ago. Alex stomped over to the nearest dry box and hefted it up on his shoulder, carrying it closer to the tent.

  Why did Charlotte have to bring up that stupid book? Sure, the thing might’ve been on the New York Times bestseller list for most of 1990 with an Oscar-award-winning movie released the same year Alex started middle school. But what none of Mariah Judge’s devoted fans and followers knew was that the physical and emotional journey the woman so touchingly chronicled never once mentioned the son she’d conceived with her much younger river-rafting guide. Or how that child never fit into the world she’d been so quick to run back to.

  Hell. Alex hated thinking about his mother and he rarely allowed himself to. But something about Charlotte Folsom brought to mind every single maternal notion he’d never allowed himself to crave.

  At least, not since Granola had passed away. That was another thing. Why’d Charlotte have to bring up his grandmother, as well? Or be such a damn good cook? That food she made was acting like a truth serum and he hadn’t been able to stop himself from divulging his entire life story to a total stranger.

  But at least talking to her had kept him from looking at the way her shirt hugged her breasts. Or how her long legs stretched out in front of the sleeping bag as they’d shared that pan of food. It also kept him from thinking about how those same legs would feel wrapped around his waist.

  He stumbled over a pinecone he hadn’t seen in the dark and then kicked the offending thing as far as he could, imagining it was a soccer ball full of his attraction for the pretty mom—who’d probably gone back to writing notes in her journal back inside the tent. Not giving Alex or the feelings she’d stirred up inside him a second thought.

  He found the second dry box right where he’d left it, near the now-drowned campfire, and carried that one over, as well, wishing for some other physical task to take his mind off things. He opened the box and grabbed the first aid kit and a few bottles of water.

  Being in a tent, living off the land, was second nature for Alex. So he wasn’t worried about food or supplies or even the weather. He was mostly concerned with how he’d be able to spend the entire night next to Charlotte Folsom, who was not only sweet and nurturing, but had those soft lips that made him think of trying out her fancy potted lip
balm. And the most expedient way for her to apply it. He’d trade his own Chapstick for a chance to feel her mouth on his.

  Inappropriate, Russell. She wasn’t some bored tourist looking for a good time with the first river-rafting guide who came along. Charlotte Folsom was here because of her job, because she was a dedicated employee. In fact, she was a mother—a single mom, possibly—who couldn’t wait to get back to her kids. And she was completely vulnerable and out of her element.

  He grunted when he dropped the heavy dry box next to the small tent that seemed to shrink more and more each time Alex thought about returning to it.

  “Can I help?” Charlotte asked, peeking her head out of the zippered door. He wanted to let out a curse, but it wasn’t the woman’s fault that he couldn’t keep his hormones in check. Although, it was her fault that the way she’d meticulously organized every single thing in these heavy boxes was making him feel out of his element. He could imagine her pulling her little laminated checklist out of that fanny pack thing she’d kept strapped to her waist and wanting to go over their supplies. For the thousandth time.

  “Here,” he said passing the first aid kit to her. His knuckles brushed against her soft fingers and he suddenly forgot how cold it was out here in the damp wind. “I figured we should pull some of the essentials out and keep them inside with us for the night.”

  She set the kit down near one of the sleeping bags and then reached out to take the bottled water. Alex was more careful about making contact with her hands again, but he was running out of excuses to avoid the tent. He grabbed an extra battery pack for the lantern and slipped it into his pocket.

  “I’m going to take a short walk over to those trees,” he said, holding on to one of the bottles of water and a small Ziploc bag containing his toothbrush.

  “Why?” Her always curious eyes were wide and he wished it wasn’t dark so he could see what color they were now.

  “To use the men’s room.”

  “What men’s... Oh.” Now he wished he could see the blush rise up on her cheeks. “Maybe I should go with you. I mean, not with you, but to the ladies’ room version.”