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* * *
They were only two miles downriver and Charlotte wished she hadn’t convinced herself, let alone her stoic rafting guide, that this was a good idea. What Charlotte hadn’t told the Russell men was that she desperately needed this article to help launch her career to the next level by—hopefully—winning a shot as a permanent contributor for a nationally syndicated cooking show. Sure, doing freelance writing for Fine Tastes had been a blessing after Mitchell had gone to prison, leaving her to raise their two daughters alone. But after some of the webisodes on her personal blog started gaining upward of 400,000 hits per day, her editor and several local news channels back in San Francisco were now referring to her as a younger, fresher Martha Stewart, and if Charlotte could turn her home and lifestyle brand into a success, then she’d finally be able to prove to her parents and her ex-husband that she was more than something to be paraded about at cocktail parties and charity events.
“Let’s pull out here,” Alex Russell finally said from his higher perch on the raft behind her.
Thank God. Charlotte had been under the impression that she was in decent shape since she did Pilates regularly and ran for thirty minutes on her home treadmill every day. But her upper arms felt like they were on fire after only an hour of paddling.
The boat was too big for just the two of them, but they needed the extra supplies she’d already packed to make the photos look more legitimate. Initially, she’d thought it would be easier and quicker to just take off in the inflatable raft with the well-muscled outdoorsman who gave new meaning to the phrase ruggedly handsome and whose masculine appearance reminded her that when she’d divorced her husband two years ago, she hadn’t divorced her libido. But even if she put her physical reaction to Alex Russell’s looks aside—which she could easily do—there were other complications to being out in the middle of nowhere, cut off from everything she was used to.
Charlotte had never left her children alone overnight, and although her friend Kylie had offered to host the girls for their first-ever slumber party back in the town of Sugar Falls, Charlotte was relieved they’d be cutting this two-day excursion short. Not that she didn’t appreciate the natural beauty around her—or the one in the boat with her—she just didn’t feel comfortable being out of communication with her daughters in case something happened to them. Or in case they needed her.
Kylie had laughed at the fact that Charlotte arrived in town last night with eight suitcases, half of the stuff belonging to her daughters. But she didn’t want them to be without their favorite blankets, stuffed animals, markers, pajamas—long sleeved for cooler weather and shorts if it became too warm—Junie B. Jones books or unicorn puzzles.
It would’ve just been smarter to postpone the whole weekend. Or call it off. The colorful Victorian buildings in the quaint mountain town where her friend lived housed plenty of antiques shops and homey restaurants that could have filled the pages of her magazine with food and decorating ideas.
But then her article wouldn’t have been much more interesting than a destination travel piece, and the career she’d been trying to build would never gain traction.
Plus, she’d recently read an autobiography by a woman who, years ago, had left her life as a political speechwriter to travel to Idaho to commune with nature and find herself. The book opened Charlotte’s eyes to how people could learn to adapt with the barest of necessities and find beauty all around them.
But clearly, that author had lived a more unfettered life than Charlotte, who’d had to decide whether to leave behind her kids. Charlotte had debated whether or not to go during most of the ride to the site, and then again for several minutes before they’d finally launched the raft and waved goodbye to the senior Russell, an interesting character who liked putting on a show of being ornery and gruff.
Now, though, her decision had been made. She was out here on this beautiful river, which was way more choppy and rock-filled than she’d expected, and she would make the best out of the situation.
Even if her arms turned to al dente linguini from rowing so much. This was nothing like sleepaway camp, and she’d bet the river jock sitting behind her had struggled to keep a straight face when she’d stupidly boasted about her experience.
“Can I give you a hand with that?” she asked the younger Russell when he hopped out of the raft and waded through the knee-deep water to pull the raft toward the pebbly shore. She may not be much in the paddling department, but she was used to doing everything for herself and for her girls back home. Charlotte hated being taken care of, or worse—having someone think she needed to be taken care of.
“Nope. You’re the customer.” The man’s sleeves were rolled above his forearms and she tried not to stare at the defined muscles as he easily maneuvered the whole thing, including her and the heavy supplies, close to a sturdy-looking overgrown bush submerged in the water.
Besides some initial instructions and an overview of the local terrain and hidden dangers lurking beneath the river’s surface, her guide hadn’t been too talkative up until this point. And Charlotte had been concentrating so hard on her paddling—and not plowing them into a submerged boulder—that she hadn’t asked many questions. In fact, her clenched jaw was almost as sore as her arms.
“You don’t have to treat me as a customer,” she said, trying to gracefully climb out of the raft while he secured the rope tie to one of the thicker branches. “I know the circumstances are not ideal and I’d like to pull my own weight.”
“Miss Folsom,” he started, but she quickly interrupted him.
“Please, call me Charlotte. Being called Miss Folsom reminds me of when I was in boarding school and would get called to the headmistress’s office.”
He took off his sunglasses and let his smoky green eyes travel up and down the length of her body before saying, “You don’t really strike me as the type to get into trouble.”
Really? Because she sure felt like she was in trouble just by the way his tone had seemed to grow in exasperation as the afternoon wore on. Charlotte unbuckled her life vest, thinking it had suddenly grown too tight. “I’m not.”
“In my experience—” he walked to the rear of the raft and unstrapped one of the boxes of supplies his grandfather had tied down before driving off and leaving them all alone “—when people go to the principal’s office, it’s because their teachers can’t handle them.”
“Well, in my case, it was typically because my parents were too busy to handle me. No, not like that,” she said quickly when she realized that sounded even worse. “I didn’t need handling. I was usually called into the office to find out that I’d be staying on campus during holiday breaks.”
“Your parents still around?” he asked. She would’ve thought his thick baritone voice sounded a bit annoyed if he’d lifted his head out of the open supply crate long enough to look in her direction.
“Well, they’re alive, if that’s what you mean. Mother is in Paris, and the last time I spoke with her assistant, she said my father was in Dubai on business.”
Mr. Russell, who’d yet to return the courtesy of inviting her to use his first name, raised his head, and Charlotte immediately recognized the sympathetic look in his eyes. She’d seen it all her life. Poor little rich girl, abandoned and unloved. Poor little Charlotte, who had to go home with the school employees for Christmas vacation because her parents were vacationing out of the country. Poor little Charlotte, who was so desperate for love and acceptance, she married the first guy who showed a speck of interest in her and ended up betrayed, bankrupt and on the cover of every newspaper in Northern California when her ex-husband was sentenced to ninety-eight years for wire fraud, money laundering and various investment schemes.
“Actually,” she continued, before he could make one of those pitying comments or pretend to feel sorry for her, “it ended up working out to my benefit. Normally, students weren’t allowed in the dining hall after meals, but Mrs. Jackson—she was the head chef—decided I made an eager pupil. My love of cooking started there and I wouldn’t trade the knowledge or the experience for anything.”
Perhaps her smile was a bit too cheerful, because the handsome guide looked up at the clouds billowing overhead and must’ve decided she needed his sympathy anyway.
“My lunch lady was named Mrs. Snook and, trust me, nobody wanted to go into her kitchen after hours. So I hope you have something other than sloppy joes and tater tots planned for your staged photo shoot.”
“I don’t suppose you could catch us a fish real quick while I forage around for some fresh herbs and root vegetables?”
“Real quick, huh?”
“I would do it myself, but I’ve never been fishing before and I figured it would take you twice as long to have to teach me. Unless you’d rather do the foraging?”
“Nope,” he said, the smirk on his lips much more tolerable than pity. “I absolutely do not want to do any foraging. What’s wrong with just slapping a striped bass on the cast-iron skillet and calling it a day? Or, better yet, we could open one of the pouches of tuna we keep in the emergency kit.”
She couldn’t help but wrinkle her nose at the mention of canned fish. “Well, the whole point of the article is to demonstrate the ability to create a five-star dining experience in the wilderness. I know it’s not the easiest route to take, but since the purpose of the photos is to make ordinary things look more desirable, I have to put a bit more effort into the presentation.”
“Nothing wrong with ordinary things looking ordinary, either.”
She wasn’t sure she’d heard his grumbled words correctly. “What’s that?”
“Nothing,” he muttered. She’d noticed that he’d also slathered on sunscreen before they’d left and kept a green ball cap with the team name Comets pulled down low on his head. After seeing his grandfather’s hard-earned, but sun-damaged skin, it was easy to see why Alex was more careful to protect his own.
Her guide pulled out a fishing pole that had been strapped inside the raft. “I’ll catch a fish, but I’m not comfortable with you wandering far from the beach. Rule number one is stay within sight.”
“I’ll stick close by.” The promise would be an easy one to keep. Charlotte wasn’t a fan of being alone and she was even less a fan of being alone and lost in the wilds, no matter how breathtaking they were. She tilted her neck to take in the tall pines and rugged green landscape. “It’s absolutely beautiful here. I might take a few pictures of the scenery.”
“Just don’t try and make it look too desirable,” he said, as he tied a hook to the end of his line. “Last thing we need is a bunch of city folks wanting to come up and beautify the land.”
Commodore—she still smiled when she thought of the older man introducing himself by a nickname she’d only ever associated with yachting—had made virtually the same plea on the drive to the put-in location. Like grandfather, like grandson. Of course, Charlotte could understand why the locals would want to keep their pristine rivers and mountains exactly the way they were. The views were amazingly spectacular. But the remote area also lacked all the modern conveniences of San Francisco.
She pulled her waterproof pack out of the raft and looked inside at the disposable box encased in a clear plastic shell. Commodore had said, in not so many words, that it had been left behind by one of their previous guests. This wasn’t exactly what she’d had in mind when she’d asked for a waterproof camera, but she couldn’t very well expect them to have professional photography equipment on hand just because her crew hadn’t showed up with theirs.
Charlotte would get better quality shots from her cell phone, which was also in its own plastic case, bought specifically for this trip. She checked the signal, hoping for a text from Kylie saying the girls were okay and doing well. But there was still no reception. She’d left a message for them before they’d launched into the river, and Commodore said he knew the Gregsons and would personally stop by Kylie’s house to make sure her friend got the message.
She took some shots of the river and the mountains in the distance, then studied the dark, damp soil for any clues as to what may be growing nearby. Good thing she’d studied up on the local plant life because the last thing she wanted to do was ask Mr. Preserve-the-Land for more help. She looked back to where he was balancing on a boulder, holding a fishing pole and far enough away that he couldn’t hear her gasp of breath at his handsome profile and masculine stance.
This wasn’t the type of scenery she’d originally envisioned when the magazine had booked her trip. And she would die of shame if he turned in that exact second and caught her snapping a photo of him. But how could she pass up the chance? The red plaid shirt couldn’t hide his athletic build any better than the thick dark stubble on his jaw could hide his handsome looks. Alex Russell looked exactly like every woman’s dream of a rugged mountain man come to life and Charlotte told herself it would’ve been sloppy journalism to not capture the alluring image.
She knew what her readers wanted, even if she was only providing the perception of an ideal setting with an ideal man. The key word was perception. Charlotte had absolutely no idea what kind of man Alex Russell was. And she knew from past experience that it would take more than a couple of hours on the Sugar River to find out that he probably wasn’t anything like he seemed. Nobody ever was. She glanced down at the clock on her phone. Good thing she had a job to do and two loving daughters to hurry back to. She didn’t have time for disillusionment today.
Chapter Two (#ub6a6dc8a-16d1-5091-a21b-a86610609c0a)
“Here’s the deal,” her guide said less than ten minutes later, as he walked toward Charlotte with his fishing pole resting on one of his broad shoulders. She had to command the air to exhale from her lungs.
Alex glanced down at her dirt-creased fingers, the ones that had been digging up wild ginger roots in the fertile soil, and, embarrassed, Charlotte wiped them clean on her pants. “This rain isn’t going to hold off for much longer. I know you’d prefer to make things look as realistic as possible, but I think it’d be safer for us to shove off and try to get a few more miles downriver before we do much more.”
“What about the fish?” She swallowed, trying not to look directly into the bulging dead eyes of the trout he’d easily caught.
“We can cook it when we stop next. Back at the put-in, I went over the map with my grandfather and gave him an itinerary of sorts, just in case things get dicey and someone needs to come looking for us.”
Dicey? That didn’t sound good. Blood rushed to her feet, giving Charlotte the urge to put these too-snug hiking boots in motion and run back to Sugar Falls. Her children had already lost one parent, so to speak, and Charlotte didn’t believe in taking any unnecessary risks. She flexed her toes, telling herself she really did need a few more pictures. Besides, the sun had just broken through, and while she was no weather expert, it surely would hold off a little longer.
“There’s an inlet farther down with a nice clearing to set up a pretend camp,” he added. “And it usually has decent phone reception.”
Phone reception was all the convincing she needed.
“You’re the expert,” she said. And realized she meant it. For someone who’d practically raised herself—if one didn’t count the revolving door of au pairs and boarding school staff—it was a foreign feeling for Charlotte to willingly give over control of her environment to another person. Yet, so far, she’d felt reasonably safe in Alex Russell’s capable hands. Well, not in his hands, literally, but more than a few times, she’d looked at his strong, tanned fingers maneuvering the oar and wondered how many women on whitewater rafting vacations had volunteered to ride next to him.
“Just let me make sure I haven’t forgotten anything.” She pulled her laminated list of supplies out of the small pack strapped around her waist and ran her finger down each item.
“I thought we went over that thing several times already, back when we loaded the raft.” They had, and he’d been extremely patient the first time she’d reviewed it. Now, though, she was getting the feeling he didn’t appreciate her ability to always be prepared. Probably because he was rolling his head back the way Audrey did whenever Charlotte told the five-year-old to pick up her My Little Ponies before she could have dessert.
“We did, but I don’t like to leave anything to chance.”
“Well, it’s not like we could simply row ourselves to the nearest department store in the event you forgot something. Besides, you haven’t taken anything out yet, so it should all still be there, right?” He rubbed his hand against the back of his neck, the gesture similar to his grandfather’s earlier, and Charlotte fought the impulse to reach up and straighten his collar.
“Hopefully.” She smiled, but didn’t apologize for her organizational skills. It only took a moment before she nodded and walked quickly toward the raft, getting her expensive new boots soaking wet in the process, since the filled raft was too heavy to pull entirely onto shore and had stayed shin-deep in the water. She had one leg over the side, but her sore arms and bulky life vest made it somewhat difficult to heave herself back in. She froze the second she felt his hands on her hips and suddenly her mistake in footwear wasn’t the only thing she felt foolish about.
“Here you go,” he said, lifting her up as if she was as light as one of her daughter’s plastic toy ponies. Because she wasn’t expecting the help—or her body’s response to his touch—her knee jerked, causing her leg to slip on the outer edge of the bow. Without dropping her, Alex shifted his hands so they were cupping her rear end and gave her a final boost inside.
When she finally scrambled onto her seat, Charlotte didn’t know what was warmer, the intimate places he’d touched her or her blushing cheeks. After Mitchell’s betrayal, she’d vowed to never fall so easily for a man again. But there was something about the fresh air and the natural isolation of the land around them that must be drawing her to the reserved river guide. The self-discovery book she’d read about camping suggested that peoples’ hormones were heightened and more animalistic when they were out in nature. Or maybe it was his rugged attractiveness combined with his quiet confidence that filled Charlotte’s mind with the kind of lustful thoughts she shouldn’t be having.
He secured the fishing line to the inside of the raft and Charlotte tamped down the shudder that threatened to erupt every time she caught sight of the lifeless, glassy fish eyes of his catch. Even though she was familiar with prepping all kinds of food, she normally didn’t have to sit right next to something that had been alive just a few minutes before. To take her mind off the dead trout, the man’s use of the word dicey, and the way his hands had perfectly formed around her curves, she decided she’d ask some background questions for her article as he took the inflated bench behind her and they paddled toward the middle of the river.
“Have you had a lot of women, Mr. Russell?” Charlotte’s oar paused midstroke and she sucked in her breath, wishing she could pull the words back in with it. “I mean, are you used to women being with you?”
Oh, no. That hadn’t sounded any better. Thankfully, she wasn’t facing him and he couldn’t see the embarrassment heating up her face.
“In what sense?” Captain Hot Hands back there probably had plenty of urban females flocking to the wilderness looking for a little more adventure than what was offered in the brochure.
“You know what? That came out wrong. I was trying to ask about your clientele. I’m definitely better at answering interview questions than asking them.”
“But you’re a reporter, right?”
“Not really. I’m more of a lifestyle expert.”
“What the hell is a lifestyle expert?”
“I’m not exactly sure, to be honest with you. I started out posting some recipes in my sorority’s alumni newsletter—”
“Sorority?”
“Yes,” she said, trying not to sound too defensive. Charlotte wasn’t oblivious to people’s skepticism and mocking tones when it came to things like Greek life or beauty pageants. But she also wouldn’t apologize for her past or for the connections she’d made in that world, a world that had welcomed a very lonely girl when everyone else had shut her out.
“So,” she continued, “I started getting follow-up questions and comments asking about ingredients, which turned into questions about household tips, which morphed into interior decorating. Pretty soon, I had my own blog about home entertainment and Fine Tastes contacted me about writing for them. But most of what I do is really just creating recipes and coming up with ideas for room décor and throwing parties. That sort of thing.”
“So you’re more about presentation than about substance?”
She jerked back her head and frowned at him. “That’s probably the judgmental way of looking at it.”
“Sorry,” he said, his smirk back. “Nobody’s ever called me judgmental before.”
Charlotte didn’t know if she necessarily believed that. She’d seen the skepticism in his eyes—before he’d quickly covered them up with his sunglasses—when they’d been talking about her sixth grade canoeing skills back at the put-in location. She’d also noticed the way he’d frowned at the brand new water-resistant performance pants she’d bought especially for this trip before suggesting that they reschedule. Sure, the man had been very patient with her so far today when instructing her how to paddle and how to angle her body when they’d hit their first set of rapids. But he also reeked of no-nonsense skill and leadership.
Well, technically, he reeked of aloe-scented sunscreen and cool water and something much more manly and musky and way too arousing. She purposely looked at the dead trout as a way to refocus her attention.
“Has anyone ever called you evasive?” she couldn’t help the frustrated tone. “It takes forever to get an answer out of you.”
“I’m sorry. Can you repeat the original question?” She didn’t have to turn toward him to hear the grin underlying his words. He was teasing her about her awkward query and she sort of deserved it.
“Do you get many female customers?” Okay, so that wasn’t what she’d really wanted to know, but it was the only way she could save face and not sound like she’d been speculating on his relationship status.
“Of course. In fact, we had our first bachelorette party last August. My dad led that group and said it was one of the wilder and more entertaining trips he’d ever been on. This time of year, though, it’s mostly the adrenaline junkies and the experienced water enthusiasts who want to be out on the river. Later in the summer, when the current slows, we get a lot of families—usually on the lower rapids.”
She seized on the word families because Charlotte would feel a lot less anxious about the narrow canyon ahead if she could imagine a raft full of boys and girls playing and frolicking in this same river. “So it’s safe for children?”
“Absolutely, as long as they understand the risks and their parents keep an eye on them. I heard you mention child care earlier. I’m assuming you have kids?”
“Yes. Elsa is six and Audrey is five. They’re currently with my friend Kylie Gregson back in Sugar Falls. Your grandfather said he knew her and would stop by and let them know that we’d be back tonight.”
She felt the slight movement of him shifting in his seat behind her. “Pull your oar in for a second,” he commanded, his tone not as playful as it had been a few moments earlier. “I’m going to try to move to the center of the channel.”
She struggled with the conflicting desire to follow directions but to also be of assistance. “Shouldn’t I help paddle us in that direction?”
“Nah, the current is strong enough that I just need to steer us that way. But if you don’t mind, the line is slipping out of our friend there, and he needs to be resecured before we hit the rapids and your glamping meal bounces out.”
“Sorry, Trouty,” she said as she tightened the clear string through the dead fish’s gills, causing its mouth to gulp open wider. But just then the raft dipped and Charlotte barely looked up in time to see a fallen tree trunk caught between two boulders.
“High side,” Alex shouted and Charlotte froze. What did that command mean? “Jump to the other side,” he yelled again.
But she must’ve been too slow because when she lifted up to move, a wave caused by the changing current slammed into them and knocked the boat sideways. Charlotte felt her left hip bounce on the rim before she toppled backward into the water.
Icy cold pins stung her skin, but the shock of the frigid river was nothing compared to the rolls of turbulent waves pounding into her and spinning her body around until she lost all orientation and all sense of control. Air. She needed air. Logically, she knew bubbles rose to the surface, but there were so many damn bubbles going every which direction. She clawed at the current, trying to find her way until she grew dizzy with exertion.
Her thrashing foot hit a rock with enough force to catapult her back up, and she barely had time to feel the cool air against her wet face when her life jacket was practically yanked over her head.
It took her several seconds to realize that Alex had just pulled her back into the raft and she was face to face with Trouty, whose eyes were probably less bulgy than hers were by this point.
“You okay?” Alex asked.
No, she wanted to shout, but her trembling lips wouldn’t form the word. She’d almost drowned, almost orphaned her daughters. The unbearable thoughts of what could have happened churned inside her head, robbing her of speech. She’d never experienced such an all-consuming panic, such an intense fear. Yet all Charlotte could do was cough in response.
“Just hold still down there while I ferry us through this gate.” Charlotte had no idea what he’d just said except for the hold still part. And if she could convince her rapidly heaving chest to do that, she’d be fine. Or so she told herself.
* * *
Alex had seen plenty of people tossed into the water and he’d seen plenty of people slow to recover from the shock. But he’d never seen anyone so shaken up after the experience. Of course, being the guide, he couldn’t afford to stop the craft in the middle of a potentially dangerous situation to calm the passenger down. He usually let the others in the boat soothe the poor soul. But it was just him and Charlotte out here and Alex wasn’t so heartless as to ignore someone still in emotional distress.
