Finally, I make up my mind, “Only if we find coffee first.”
He rises from his chair and extends his hand to me, “Well, come on, then, Agatha Christie.”
●●●
“I know we just met, and I hope you don’t take this the wrong way,” Bowen pushes a stray branch out of his path and holds it until I pass, “but you’re kind of reckless.”
“Why?” I step past him with a sideways glance.
He takes a couple of long strides over a patch of exposed roots to catch up with me, “Because you’re stomping through the woods with a guy you met five minutes ago.”
I raise an eyebrow, maintaining my stoic demeanor, “Is it a mistake?”
Bowen shrugs, “Remains to be seen.”
He’s right, of course. Who does that—goes running off into the woods with a stranger? But, then again, who answers a wrong number and then actually meets that person the next morning when said wrong number recognizes their voice?
“It’s always safer to hike with a partner,” I inform him. “It’s statistically more likely that I’ll slip, fall, and break my leg than it is for you to turn out to be a murderer. And even if you were planning on murdering me, you’re on camera in the lobby, I texted my best friend the trail we’re on, and—” I hesitate, pressing my lips together as I stifle a grin.
“And what?”
I decide not to mention the GPS locator I carry whenever I go hiking and just cut to the chase, “I also sent her a picture of you.”
Bowen disappears from my periphery and when I look back over my shoulder, he’s standing in the middle of the trail about 20 feet behind, his eyes narrowed. “Bullshit!” he calls out.
We stare at each other for a few moments before I shoot him a smug look. I backtrack to him, reaching in my pocket to retrieve my phone. He waits for me to rotate my phone toward him and lift it up to eye level. He scans the text thread and lingers on the photo of himself standing next to the counter lined with hotel coffee and espresso machines. I don’t bother hiding the text beneath it.
ME (7:21AM): Hiking Laurel Ridge with a hot guy. If you don’t hear from me in 2 hours, call search and rescue.
Bowen glances at me and then back at the screen. “Huh,” he smirks.
After another moment, I lower my phone, lock the screen, and slide it back into my pocket. We start back up the trail in silence, Bowen walking alongside me again. I assume he’s deciding whether he’s made a mistake and I’m the one who turned out to be the creep after all. But I’m prepared to live with that. Better safe than sorry.
“That’s some covert shit,” he finally says.
“Taking your picture without you seeing?”
“No. Calling me hot to your friend but not to my face.”
“It’s just an observation,” I reply and tuck my hair behind my ear, “besides, it probably made Barrett feel better to know I’m not alone.”
Bowen glances down at my shorts pocket, “I guess you’re not so reckless, after all.”
“No, I take calculated risks. But that’s my job—safety and compliance.”
“Until you sell your book,” he flashes a wide smile that shows off two rows of straight white teeth.
“That’s the plan,” I glance at him, “as long as I make it back from this hike alive.”
Bowen steps up onto a massive slab of sandstone jutting out of the earth, “Well, I wouldn’t want to wreck your plans. And besides,” he turns to extend his hand to me, “whether man or animal, I promise you’ll get home in one piece.”
After hoisting me onto the boulder, he lifts the hem of his t-shirt to reveal a black Glock tucked into a holster inside the back of his jeans. It’s the same firearm my coworkers in security carry. But I’m not at work, I’m in the woods. So, that’s a problem.
Bowen lets his shirt fall back over his hip and hops off the sandstone, reaching for me again. I jump down next to him and my muscles tense, a familiar chill creep over my skin. It’s already 75°, but my body trembles as if all the warmth has been sucked out of the air. I bounce my shoulders and jiggle my arms, trying to shake the feeling. This hasn’t happened in a long time. I thought, for sure, it was over. Instead, I’m fighting the adrenaline. Why does this have to happen now? Why was it still happening, after all this time?
Not right now, not right now…
I feel for the hair tie I looped around my wrist this morning and stop in the middle of the trail. I throw my head forward, doubling over, and begin gathering my mass of strawberry blonde curls at the crown of my head. Upside down, I take a few slow, deep breaths, and close my eyes trying to center myself. I can buy some time like this.
Get a grip, Sorensen.
Muscle memories rear their ugly heads at the most inconvenient times.
I slowly twist the elastic band around my hair and tighten it with a couple tugs, allowing my heartrate to slow. I raise back up to see Bowen watching me from about 30 feet ahead. I take a deep breath and jog toward him to catch up. Once at his side, I straighten up and exhale with a sigh.
He cracks a smile, “You good?”
I focus on his eyes, dark and intense, which works better than I anticipate, “Yeah,” I nod toward the path ahead, “I think it gets rockier as it goes up.”
Bowen gives a nod, motioning down the trail as we start walking again, “There’s a really good view from the top.”
“Are you always packing?” I motion to his waist.
“Not always. My family owns a surveying company. Everyone carries when they’re out in the field, so it’s become habit when we’re in the woods. To each their own, but you run across some real weirdos in the middle of nowhere.”
“I know the feeling,” I smirk, throwing him a side eye.
The corner of his mouth curls as we continue up the hill, him glancing over at me every few feet. Soon, we reach a rocky outcrop, slowing down to traverse the rough terrain. When he reaches up to stabilize himself on a smooth rockface, I can finally make out the tattoo on his right arm. The curls and zig-zags are a collage of leaves and grass that extend from his wrist all the way up to his elbow. Intermingled with the grass are bell-shaped flowers shaded with vibrant, royal blue ink. It’s so subtle that I couldn’t even see the color until now.
