Whiskey and Wildfire

By Ava Harper Kent

Kat Shannon loves her big, boisterous, well-meaning family . . . not so much their lack of boundaries. Or their stifling insistence that she settle down in small-town Glasgow, Kentucky to start a family of her own.

 

A new job in Nashville offers Kat a fresh start and a shot at her dreams—a fulfilling career and independen

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ava Harper Kent
• Release date: Oct 11, 2018
• ISBN: 9780578479866

Ava Harper Kent

Hello, my name is Ava and I am a book junkie. I love to immerse myself in worlds created by words, whether I am reading or writing them. I love books that make me think and feel deeply, stories that crackle to life, and characters that stay with me when I close the book. I enjoy most genres-history, memoirs, mysteries, philosophy, poetry, cookbooks, plays . . . and toe-curling, steamy romance novels. It's the whole human experience! No one fits into one neat category in real life or in successful fiction. My hope is that my varied interests will lead to characters and plots as well-rounded as my reading list. I am currently being entertained by the voices of the Whiskey and Wildfire series, and they are pushing and shoving inside my head to make their way onto paper . . . or the monitor, as the case may be! Each of my stories starts with a woman finding her inner strength to blaze her own path. I'm a proponent of real love as a partnership of equals; a supportive relationship that is greater than the sum of its parts. This is the kind of love I've shared with my husband for over 20 years, and I know that it is a rare and precious gift. You'll find life lessons we've learned in each story I write, and a little bit of my sexy beast in all of my men.

Book preview

1

Kathleen

I’ll never be a morning person. But coffee? Coffee is life .

So, coffee is the reason I find myself sneaking down the hall to the kitchen in my thickest sweats this morning before the sun—or anyone else in the house—has risen.

The security lights still shine brightly, offering enough bluish light through the front windows that I can see to start a pot of my first love—coffee strong enough to pour itself—and preheat a thermos. While the coffee brews, I slip on my tennis shoes before grabbing a quilt, my coat, and my gloves from the living room. I put a couple of Mom’s pumpkin-pecan muffins in a baggie and stuff it in my coat pocket. I empty the hot water from the thermos, adding half and half and sugar. Just as the coffee pot hiccups and sighs its completion, I pour my coffee, start a pot of normal-strength coffee for the others, and dart out the side door before the smell wakes anyone.

Closing the door quietly, I make a run for the old tree house, homemade quilt flapping behind me. I fling myself up the ladder, chuckling as I remember climbing it as a little girl, wearing my Wonder Woman cape. Some things never change. I close the trap door and curl up in the quilt beside the window that will display the sunrise. Steam curls from my high-octane coffee in Dad’s big green Stanley thermos, creamy and sweet. I nibble the muffins and sip my coffee, embracing the chill as the sun slowly joins me for a private celebration of New Year’s Eve.

I should be happy.

I mean, I am happy. Mostly.

Well, I’m not unhappy.

Lately, a vague dissatisfaction has settled over my shoulders like the quilt I’m wearing, and I can’t quite pinpoint the reason. Maybe it’s because here I am, 32 years old and living back at home with my parents in Glasgow, Kentucky—the same small town where I grew up, constantly at the mercy of family and church responsibilities. Outside of work, my life is bodysurfing. I’m resigned to throwing myself on someone else’s wave and giving myself over to wherever it takes me.

Weekends and holidays (like today) should provide such lovely opportunities for to sleep in or read in bed . . . unless you live in the madhouse that is my family home. Instead, holidays here provide more excuses for others to claim my time. And we already see each other almost daily!

Don’t get me wrong, I love my family dearly, especially all the munchkins. My younger sister, Leslie just added munchkin number eight to the family this summer, tying my older brother, Jamie at four each. Leslie had some health scares toward the end of the pregnancy, so I spent extra time babysitting, cooking and cleaning, running errands, and anything else they needed. This kind of family stuff I love—taking care of the people I love. Because I saw the need and found a solution. Voluntarily, not because I was drafted.

The thing that drives me crazy? The assumption that I will pitch in for whatever parties or social-butterfly stuff they are planning. Feeling forced to rearrange my schedule to make it work.

After graduating from Western Kentucky, I stayed in Bowling Green several years for an entry-level job in my chosen field, human resources. I could breathe there, at least on a personal level. Eventually, a job offer in my hometown convinced me temporarily to move back in with my parents around my thirtieth birthday. TJ Samson Regional Health helps keep healthcare providers in rural areas. This made it easy to trade the boring first job’s personal space for a job where I feel like I make a difference in people’s lives.

All that to say, when I leave each day for work, I do so with a sense of fulfillment, a sense of purpose. One that I don’t have elsewhere. As a woman who happily pursues a career, I am an oddity in my family. My mom, sister, and sister-in-law don’t work outside of the home. Mom never had a job as far as I know, and my sister, Leslie only worked in a bakery for a year or two till morning sickness did her in. My sister-in-law, Nora had a career as a high school Special Ed teacher. She quit after her third pregnancy, although she still subs sometimes. My family never quite believes me when I say that I’m happy being single—that I’m not desperately pining for marriage and kids.

It doesn’t help that I am the lone introvert among extroverts in the original Shannon five. It’s not that I don’t like people; I just need time alone to recharge my batteries. Because being quiet and alone would not be enjoyable for the rest of my family, they try to help me not be alone. Ever. I really do love them, but what I wouldn’t give for a little space! That’s one reason I’m so grateful for Asher.

Asher.

We’ve known each other . . . well, practically since birth. He understands when I need to get away from it all. And for the boy who was raised in the fishbowl of a small-town pastor’s family? I allow him room to be himself without having to be on guard. I don’t know how I’d survive life in Glasgow without him as my best friend. Calling him my boyfriend doesn’t quite seem to capture our relationship.

Eventually, I hear the neighborhood coming to life around me. Lights are on in the kitchen, and I know Leslie has probably arrived to join Mom. If I work it right, I can convince them to let me box up the Christmas decorations while they chatter, clean, and cook. Hopefully, I can convince them to let me fly solo by doing the task they like the least.

I sigh and gather everything I brought with me. The rising sun has warmed the air enough that my cape is no longer necessary. Pausing outside the back door, I take a deep breath and enjoy the last moment of quiet before entering the chaos.

Mom and Leslie somehow already have flour smudged and dusted all over them and the room, and they are moving in sync about the kitchen. Dad raises an eyebrow at me as he presides over the eggs. It looks like he has already separated several dozen and is now beating the whites. He indicates the hallway with his eyes, encouraging me to make a run for it. I smile and take his suggestion, leaving the quilt and coat in the living room. I step into the Jack and Jill bath I shared with Leslie growing up to brush my teeth and check my ponytail. Good enough for cleaning. I’ll get ready later, in time for my getaway with Asher.

Time to pack up Christmas!

I enter the kitchen, holding the silver reindeer candle holders from the fireplace mantle. I know better than to specifically mention my date with Asher or their matchmaker mode will kick in, and Mom will start hounding me about pretty grandbabies.

Asher IS gorgeous; he would make pretty babies.

I shake that thought from my head. No time for that today. Not sure I want to make time for that thought any time soon, either.

Mom, I’ve got three hours before I have to get ready. Do you want me to start with the larger decorations like this before I box up the ornaments? I ask. Dad grins at me, knowing I just paved the way to get a little peace and quiet while I work. I may need Dad to help with some of the heavier stuff in a little while, especially if you want the main tree taken down. He winks and mouths his thanks.

A bit frazzled, Mom looks up from her chopping board and the broccoli she is mutilating. Beside her, Leslie is mixing the ingredients for Mom’s cheeseball recipe that she will roll into individual bite-sized cheeseballs for serving. Mom hesitates, gathering her thoughts. Take down anything Santa and anything overtly Christmas. That includes the Christmas village and the big tree. Oh, and mistletoe! Wreaths, greenery, white lights—all of that can stay. Decorations in silver, gold, and white can stay. Smaller trees can stay, but don’t strip them down to white lights yet. They’re decorated simply, so I want to see what it looks like at that point before deciding if I need to go further.

Don’t forget about reorganizing, Leslie prompts her.

Oh, yes! I have new plastic tubs for the ornaments. Leslie has already labeled them. I want them stored away so that the first tubs I reach will be the first things I need—the tree skirt, the lights, and then the first layer of plain filler ornaments. Behind that will be the nicer ornaments and the keepsake ones, especially the homemade ones you kids made over the years. Farthest in the back and last on the trees will be the toppers. She has tubs labeled for larger decorations that don’t have good storage boxes, as well. Those will go on different shelves, so don’t mix them in with ornaments.

I’ll get my headphones and get started. Remember that I won’t hear you, so send Dad if you need me instead of yelling. Mom nods, but she and Leslie have already returned to their world, chattering about all their plans and to-do lists. I can’t wait to finish my part and escape with my best friend.

Ten-minute warning! my mother calls from the living room. Asher told me to dress comfortably for outdoors, since it’s relatively warm for late December. I’m not a teenager, so while my jeans are stretchy and fitted, nothing I wear could be called skinny. The spandex content is essential. My jeans must stretch with me, thus avoiding death by denim constriction. I’ve layered a couple of shirts, and I’ll grab my red Western Kentucky Hilltoppers jacket on the way out the door. My hair is tamed, and I applied my tinted moisturizer and tinted lip balm with sunscreen to protect my face and lips from chapping in the wind. A little liner and mascara, because I’m vain enough to want my eyes to look good. One last inspection in the mirror, and then I head for the front door.

As I reach for my jacket, I hear Asher’s knock at the door. I dart toward it, knowing that if Mom or Leslie answer, we will be here forever. Dad is opening it as I round the corner, and Asher’s eyes light up when he sees me. I kiss Dad on the cheek and tell him a bit louder than necessary, Asher has a busy day planned, so we have to leave now or we’ll run out of daylight!

Dad smirks and tells us to have fun, well aware my performance was for Mom’s benefit. I hear her calling my name, so I blow her a kiss while Dad runs interference for me.

Asher chuckles and takes my hand as we jog to the car. I wasn’t aware I shared the plan for the date with you, he says as he holds my door open, then closes it once I get settled. He knows what I was doing, since his family is just as nosy. He grins at me through the windshield on his way around the car.

As he drives out of the subdivision, he reaches over and takes my hand, kissing the knuckles before placing our hands on my thigh. How was your morning?

I sigh. Busy. Mom and Leslie decided all the decorations needed to be reorganized for storage this year. We had to do the changeover from Christmas for the New Year’s Eve party tonight. Leslie left the kids at home with Ryan so she could fully engage in the crazy. They’ve been cooking since daybreak. I cannot possibly thank you enough for rescuing me!

He rubs his thumb absently in circles on my hand. You never have to thank me for spending time with you, Katie. You know I’d do anything to have more time with you.

I lean my head back against the headrest and let my eyes drift closed, classic avoidance behavior. Rather than encourage his sweet declarations, I ask, Are we headed somewhere in town, or do we have a little while? I tilt my head toward him and peek with my left eye.

We’ve got around half an hour, he says. Want to stop for some coffee at Mojo’s?"

I smile and nod. You know me so well!

Fifteen minutes later, we are in the process of caffeinating as we head out of town. After all your mother’s parties and family events, you’re probably ready to get back to work so you can get a little rest.

I take a sip, then answer, Like you wouldn’t believe. It’s the only place since college that I really feel like myself—like I fit. I know what I’m doing there and who I am. I love my family, but it’s always someone else’s schedule and someone else’s rules that they may or may not share with me, but still expect me to follow. I didn’t intend to share all of that, but this discontent is bubbling out when I least expect it lately. I look over at Asher, and I can tell his wheels are turning, planning how to fix it, so I wave my hand dismissively. It’s just who they are. I can’t expect them to be someone else for my sake.

He darts a glance over at me, then sighs. Katie, why is it okay for them to expect you to be someone else for their sakes?

I jerk my head to look at him, eyes wide. What do you mean? I ask defensively (and probably too loudly for such close quarters). It’s one thing for me to complain about my family, but for someone else to complain about them—even on my behalf?

Oh, Katie, I’m sorry. That wasn’t a slight against your family. You know I love them like my own. I don’t think they intentionally ask you to give up who you are. But if anyone has to change plans, it’s you. If anyone has to give up their pick, it’s you. If anyone stays behind, it’s always you. You are always the first to volunteer and accommodate everyone else. I didn’t mean to upset you, sweet girl. I just want you to be happy.

I smile at him and lean my head over onto his shoulder. It’s an uncomfortable stretch, but I need the contact for a moment. I know you do, Asher. All these years and you’re still my best friend. I turn my head and press a kiss to his shoulder, rubbing his bicep. Uncomfortable with the scrutiny, I change the subject back to him. I have the fleeting thought that this illustrates Asher’s point, but I press ahead. And if anyone understands, you do. How is it going with the finance committee at church?

Asher sighs. The older men on the committee are small business owners, but none of them do anything in the business of their companies. They sell insurance, or they fix cars, or they practice medicine. But they hire a business manager or an accountant, or their wife handles payroll and ordering supplies. Someone else prepares their taxes. They don’t have a budget to prepare; they just see what’s in the account after they pay the bills. But since they’re business owners, they’re considered the authority. So, they come to committee meetings, look at the previous years’ budgets, and duplicate what the church spent the previous year on each area. There’s a small emergency fund, but no allowance for major renovations or upgrades and no savings.

I find myself tuning out, losing all interest. I try not to show it though, because he has no one else to open up to. His relationship with his father is already complicated, beside the fact that his dad is the pastor of our church and involved with this committee. And his mother is the stereotypical good little Southern pastor’s wife who will always take his side, so Asher can’t discuss it with her. He would never put his sisters in the middle, even by discussing something with Shiloh’s husband, Devon. Most of his friends are members of the church, and he takes his responsibilities at the church seriously, including not exposing the aggravating everyday parts of running the church to the congregation. He needs to feel that someone is on his side.

 . . . And heaven forbid we trim some of our outdated expenses like newspaper ads in favor of improving our office computers or website. I don’t want to make everything slick and high tech, but the website is so antiquated it’s embarrassing. I could barely get them to spend anything to update the audiovisual equipment we use in service, even when some of it completely died. You should have heard the fight over displaying the announcements on monitors instead of printing bulletins! One of the arguments was that someone’s wife is ‘going through the change’ and needs the bulletin to fan herself when she has hot flashes. Like that justifies the printing budget and the man hours spent designing and preparing the bulletins every week!

He stops and shakes his head. I don’t expect Dad to side with me automatically. I just wish he wouldn’t automatically side against me. He dismisses my suggestions, if I even get that far. He usually cuts me off and tells me we don’t have time to discuss any of my ‘high-priced fancy gadgets.’ The only way I get any input is if one of the committee members asks for my suggestions outside of church. I’ve learned to let them drive the conversation, asking questions until they understand. And they bring it up in committee as their idea, giving me apologetic looks because they don’t want to take credit, but they know it won’t be discussed otherwise. I don’t care, as long as the church benefits.

You’re a good man, Asher. I’m sorry you have to fight so hard to be allowed to help. I don’t understand why he insisted that you take a spot on the committee if he’s going to undermine you at every step.

Oh, he doesn’t see it as undermining me. He thinks he’s helping me become a man by working for everything instead of having anything handed to me.

So, to avoid being unfair by showing favoritism, he’s being unfair by going to the other extreme?

Exactly.

Asher starts to look defeated, shoulders slumped, and I hate that. By this time in our drive, I have my suspicions about our destination, but I don’t want to ruin his surprise. He loves to plan special days just for us, so I want to show how much I appreciate his thoughtfulness. So, what do you have planned for today? I dressed for the outdoors, as requested. Any hints?

He grins, relieved at the subject change. Do you remember when we were in elementary school—you were in second grade, in Mrs. Love’s class? I was in third grade, in Mrs. Bradley’s class, and our classes did that unit on history and geology together?

You mean when you decided you wanted to be a professional spelunker? At least until you found out that meant hiking with wet socks in caves with bats instead of the Bat Cave? I tease.

But do you remember how I found that out? It was our field trip . . . 

 . . . to Mammoth Cave! I finish with him, laughing.

2

Kathleen

I thought we’d take an easy trail into the mouth of the caves—not far enough for wet socks, of course, Asher jokes as we approach the trail entrance. Then we’ll ride horses and find a picnic spot. He indicates his backpack, filled with items from the cooler in his trunk.

Sounds like fun! I take his hand and skip ahead, tugging him along as we jog down the quiet wooded path. The forest is still so lush—the intensely bright evergreens, the brilliant blue of the sunny sky above. I smell rich earth and decaying wood from fallen trees. A hint of cedar. Or pine, maybe? It’s intoxicating. I throw my arms out and spin like Julie Andrews on the mountaintop in The Sound of Music. "It’s so beautiful here! Isn’t this the most perfect day EVER?" He catches me around the waist, pulling me against him, both of us laughing.

"It is. You are so beautiful. God, I love you. He leans his forehead against mine. My sweet girl. I love seeing you this happy." He tightens his arms around me, hugging me close, and he kisses me—feather light kisses on my lips, across my jaw, and behind my ear. God, I love when he finds that spot. I don’t even try to suppress the shiver. He presses his head into my neck, collecting himself.

Remember that field trip in the big cavern where the tour guide kept droning on and on?

I nod. I’m glad he changed the subject without noticing that I didn’t say I loved him. Yet again. I mean, I do—don’t I? I just can’t seem to actually say it.

The teachers kept calling for their classes to stay together. You remember how they did it?

I try to remember, but I can’t. I shake my head, puzzled. How?

They would sort us by the teacher’s last name. ‘Bradley on the right, Love on the left.’ And every time they said, ‘Love on the left,’ I would look to my left, and there you were. All I could think was that your hand was so close to mine. My little third grade brain was so focused on your hand that I could barely focus on anything else that day! I finally worked up the nerve, and we held hands for the first time that day. He kisses my forehead, pausing as he remembers.

We came here with the church when I was in sixth grade, and I walked with my arm around you for the first time after you agreed to ‘go with me.’ When I was fourteen, we came with the church youth group. I finally worked up the nerve to sneak our first little kiss in that same big cavern. It was just a peck on the lips, but I felt invincible!

He strokes my hair behind my ear, as if he needs a moment before he continues. He swallows hard, and his voice gets huskier. Then a couple of years later, I brought you here for our first date. We hiked one of the trails and had a picnic. Remember?

I do. You always understood I didn’t want a big production.

He chuckles. "I did, but I have to admit that I had ulterior motives as well. I wanted privacy, so we could have our first real kiss."

Yeah, I rocked your teenaged world with that kiss, didn’t I? I tease.

You have no idea, do you? He looks down, shaking his head. Why do you think I had to run to the bathroom right after we kissed? His face is red when he finally looks up, bashful grin on his face.

"Noooooo! Really?" I’m shocked. Asher, normally so cool and collected—did he just admit to coming in his pants from a kiss? Don’t get me wrong, it was nice, but it was so innocent . . . and sloppy! Two kids who didn’t even know what to do with our tongues.

Lost control like the proverbial teenager and had to go clean up. And I thought hiking in wet socks sucked! We both laugh, but Asher quickly sobers. We started coming here as little kids. Each visit, we had grown up more. And our feelings matured each time. He reaches one hand up to my jaw, rubbing his thumb along my cheek. He leans in to give me the sweetest kiss, then leans back and pins me with his hungry gaze. Katie, we’re not those little kids anymore.

Wait. What?

Our fun escape has just taken a serious turn. His stare heats, and his hand moves to the back of my neck to pull me close. His kiss this time is hungry. We’ve kissed before, but this is like kissing an entirely different person. I feel his heart racing. I should slow this down . . . but this feels so good. I should give this a minute, right? No need to be rude. I certainly don’t want him to think I’m rejecting him and hurt his feelings.

So slowly I don’t realize it, he backs me a few yards off the trail and against a tree. His other hand slides under the back hem of my shirt and strokes my back. He pulls me against him as his knee slides between my legs, and he presses his hips against mine. Okay, that feels impressive. Maybe I should see where this is going. I feel immobilized like the cobra looking at the snake charmer . . . although that metaphor seems a bit backward right now. I’m frozen in place, even though I know better.

Asher’s hand on my neck drifts down my collarbone—seriously, when did that become an erogenous zone?—before he traces his thumb across my nipples. As his hand darts underneath my shirt, reaching into my bra to tweak my breasts, he groans and rolls his hips into mine. God, he’s so hard and hitting me in just right the right spot. Oh, for a little friction right now. Just a little more friction!

His mouth leaves mine, and my head falls onto his shoulder. I sag, thankful for the tree behind me and the pressure of his hips keeping me upright. His mouth follows the path his hand just blazed, and I vaguely register cool air on my stomach just before my breast is covered in warmth . . . and sweet, wet, teasing suction.

Mmmmmm. My brain is officially fried.

Somehow, he managed to unclasp my bra. I should stop this, but with his tongue swirling around my nipple, I can’t bring myself to care. He’s tweaking my breast with one hand, and the other is loosening my jeans, moving under the edge of my panties, tugging them down.

My eyes pop open, realizing how close we are to a family recreation area. From the massive erection pressed against my thigh, and how completely lost Asher is right now, I’m not certain if he actually realizes what he is doing. I’m shocked; he’s never been this sexual or aggressive before. I unwrap my arms from his neck and put them on his chest, rubbing lightly to get his attention. I need to slow things down—but oh my God, I never realized how good his chest feels! I rub his chest for a moment before I remember I need to make him stop. Asher? Honey, what are you . . . 

"God, Katie, please. Please," he moans, letting go of my breast to unfasten his jeans. His hands start working together frantically to pull my jeans down my thighs, then he turns me around and plants my hands on the tree. One arm wraps around my waist, the hand softly rubbing between my breasts, while he lines himself up with the other hand and swiftly enters me from behind. Asher bottoms out inside me and goes completely still.

I gasp, never anticipating this would happen today.

"Heaven. Oh, my sweet girl, you are heaven. I have to move, he groans as he pulls back, and pushes back in. Without any real rhythm, he gradually speeds up until he is pumping frantically. I can’t . . . God, Katie . . . so good . . . can’t wait . . . " He muffles his noises by burying his head in my neck at first, then pressing his face into my shoulder to muffle himself as he grunts his climax.

I realize I’m trembling, both from cold and surprise. This is not how I imagined our date, or our first time having sex. I know it isn’t what Asher planned, either. I feel him leaning into me, holding me tighter as if afraid to let this moment go. I don’t know what to do or say.

I mean, I guess I figured we would eventually have sex. Didn’t I? Of course, I did. I mean, I don’t see us apart, so I guess we had to eventually. Right? God, that sounds about as romantic as this moment was. I instantly feel remorse for being so critical, but I don’t know what to think. Or how to act.

At least this wasn’t my first time. Not that my experience was extensive or even that great, but I’d fumbled around under the influence of torrid young crushes during college and in my early career in Bowling Green. The intense hormones and emotions made it seem very exciting at the time, even the times when we had no clue what we were doing. Frankly, the foreplay was more fulfilling than any of the sex had ever been. Today’s performance included.

As the awkward silence stretches on, it becomes clear neither one of us wants to be the first to address what just happened. I decide to sidestep the subject and ask, Did you happen to pack any napkins? I never heard a condom wrapper, so I’m anticipating a mess as he pulls himself from my body. I dismiss a flicker of aggravation, reminding myself Asher just got caught up in the moment.

Ummm . . . yeah. I’m not sure I can reach it from here. His face drops to my back, and I know embarrassment radiates from him without having to see his face. I . . . Katie. He takes a deep breath and exhales. Oh, God, Katie, I don’t know what to do here. He is clearly talking about more than reaching napkins now, but that is the easier topic to address.

It’s okay, honey. I’ve got my hand in place to catch any mess, so I’m good for now. You go ahead and get the napkins from the backpack and bring them back to me. I just need to make this less uncomfortable, so we can face it together.

He hugs me tightly for another moment, kissing me softly between the shoulder blades before pulling away. I look over my shoulder as he tucks himself back into his pants and moves to his backpack. He reaches into an outside pocket and grabs some napkins before walking back to my side. His cheeks are flushed, probably from both pleasure and embarrassment, and he places the napkins in my free hand. He closes his eyes and leans his forehead against the side of my head. His tenderness is more than I can handle right now. I brusquely clean myself and wad the napkins up before placing them in my jeans pocket.

Let me help you. He reaches under my shirt to fasten my bra while I adjust the girls in the cups. He smooths my shirt back into place, and his hands softly glide up to the sides of my face. He smiles shyly and slides his arms around my shoulder to hold me. Finally, he pulls back and kisses me softly. I planned to take you to the cave where we toured on the field trip, because I wanted to hold your hands and kiss you there, where we first held hands, where we shared our first kiss as kids. He chuckles softly. Nothing like just now, though. He pulls me close and holds me again. He murmurs in my ear, "I didn’t plan to share this ‘first’ here. I guess it’s appropriate, though, considering our history at the park."

He kisses me on the side of the head, then steps back and reaches for my hand and pulls me to his side. Let’s go, my sweet girl. We can skip the cave and move on to the horses and the picnic. He keeps me plastered to his side as we move back on to the trail, and he doesn’t let me go until we get on our horses. I guess I’m still shocked enough to let him.

I had forgotten that the man who owns the nearby stable is the father of Asher’s college roommate. They used to come here and ride all the time on breaks from college. Asher always drove him back and forth to school, and they treat him like family whenever he visits. After introductions, they select horses suited to our experience (and fond enough of one another to walk closely), and Asher leads us on our way. We ride side by side and hold hands, seeming to enjoy the silence.

I’m not sure if silence is the best follow up to our frantic coupling, since it lets me stew. Is this what I wanted? I mean, I’ve always loved Asher. Haven’t I? He’s been my best friend and champion practically our entire lives. He’s just always been there. We weren’t hot and heavy in high school, even though we hung out all the time. I went to his games and cheered for him, and he supported me at my choir concerts and tennis matches. We went to dances together, and he even came home from college to take me to my senior prom.

We weren’t really dating, and we didn’t feel the need to have some big state-of-the-relationship talk when he graduated high school the year before me. We just drifted into separate worlds. Different colleges. After graduation, we got jobs and started our adult lives. We eventually returned to Glasgow, just like we eventually drifted back together, renewing our friendship and eventually finding ourselves dating again.

Eventually or inevitably? I’m not sure if this some unavoidable moment demanded by fate or just what has happened because of proximity. And that scares me.

How did we get here? A church event here, a dinner there, holding hands and being comfortable like an old married couple—except we skipped the honeymoon, electric attraction part. Until today, apparently. This wasn’t how I planned it, but maybe it was better to go ahead and get this first time out of the way, so we could move on. Right? I don’t know what to think. It has to mean something that we share so many of our firsts at this place, though. Maybe it is fate pushing us closer with each visit.

Katie, sweet girl, did you hear me? Asher asks from beside me. I turn and look at his sweet smile as it registers that he has been trying to get my attention.

In true introvert style, my freak-out is completely internal, complete with mental babbling. Most importantly, I don’t show a hint of my inner turmoil, since that might make anyone around me uncomfortable. God forbid someone else is uncomfortable because I have feelings. I’m sorry; I was lost in thought. It’s so beautiful here.

The most beautiful view I’ve ever seen, he replies, still smiling at me. Is this spot okay for our picnic? I nod, so we dismount. Working side by side to set everything up brings us back to a more normal dynamic. I shake off the unsettling feeling that we just leapt off a cliff we can’t climb back up.

Asher and I lay on our sides, propped up and facing each other. We laugh about trivial things as we enjoy our picnic. It’s simple, but I can tell he selected items he knows I enjoy—sandwiches on my favorite ciabatta rolls, kettle chips, pieces of sharp cheddar, strips of raw veggies.

He sits up and serves our simple dessert of chocolate-covered strawberries, but he seems oddly nervous as he reaches for the sparkling cider. He doesn’t drink, so maybe he has never opened any kind of bubbly. That can be nerve racking, especially in front of someone you want to impress. I follow his lead, sitting as he pours our glasses. As we feed one another the berries and sip the cider, Asher can’t seem to stop touching me. He caresses my cheek and leans in