into the bags, they padded toward the creek’s edge.
Wyatt stepped into the frigid water, testing the bottom as Grace stepped in beside him. “Careful, it’s slippery.”
They took their time, slowing down when they reached the stream’s center. Water hit his calves with surprising force, and he carefully picked his way across, using large rocks as stepping-stones when he could.
“Want to break for a snack soon?” Grace asked.
“Sure. I’m pretty hungry.”
“Me too. That apple tart is calling my—” Grace squealed as she slipped.
Wyatt grabbed her arm, preventing a complete dousing. “You okay?”
She got her feet under her. “I think so. So much for staying dry.”
He kept a firm grip on her arm as they navigated the rest of the stream. When she stepped out of the water, he saw the bloody trail leading down from her knee. “You’re bleeding. Sit down.”
“It’s nothing.” But she sat on a rock on the shore’s edge. “Just a scratch.”
Wyatt unzipped his pack. “I’ve got a Band-Aid.” He fished out the first-aid kit as Grace pulled out a baby wipe and cleaned off her shin.
He loved how low maintenance she was. None of the women he’d dated in the past would be caught dead on a hiking trail, much less sitting here so calmly while blood ran down her leg.
He opened the kit and fished out an alcohol wipe. Ripping it open, he sank down in front of her, getting his first look at the injury. She must’ve caught it on a jagged rock because it was torn open and raw looking. The water had washed it out, but it still needed to be disinfected.
“That looks pretty nasty, but you shouldn’t need stitches.” He unfolded the wipe. “Nonetheless, this is going to hurt.”
“Go ahead.”
He gently pressed the wipe to the wound.
A sharp intake of breath was her only sign of pain.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’ll try to make it fast.”
* * *
Grace gritted her teeth as he sterilized the scrape, her fingers tightening into a fist on her lap at the sharp sting. “I’m not usually so clumsy.”
“Could’ve just as easily been me. At least you didn’t get too wet.” He finished the task as quickly as possible. Then he bowed over the wound, and Grace felt the cool, soothing breeze of his breath.
A shiver passed through her as he blew on it again. Goose bumps danced across her skin. The gesture was so unexpected. So nurturing. So . . . intimate.
She stilled, looking down at the top of his head, at the chips of leaves lost in his thick hair. At the masculine slash of his brows and the soft feather of his dark eyelashes brushing the tops of his cheeks.
As if sensing a shift in mood, he straightened, coming face-to-face with her. He was close. His gaze sharpened on her eyes, his face changing slowly as the moment morphed into something that electrified the space between them.
A heartbeat passed, or maybe it was longer. Maybe the sun stood still in the sky. She wasn’t sure, because everything else ceased to exist. Everything except his eyes, fixed on her, laden with desire.
Kiss me.
He rose onto his knees, coming closer, and now she was looking up at him. Then, as if he’d read her mind, he took her face in his hands and pulled her to him.
His warm breath whispered against her lips, and Grace’s eyelids fluttered shut. And then she lost all coherent thought. She was just feeling now. Feeling his firm touch. His bold mouth. His solid frame.
She felt the brush of his lips on hers, soft and confident and so, so good. She felt the warm squeeze of attraction deep inside and the wild beating of her heart.
And the intense need for this kiss to go on forever—she felt that too. Because really, how would she bear it when it ended?
Somebody whimpered. Maybe her. She roped her arms around his broad shoulders, plowed her fingers into the soft hair at his nape.
He responded with a moan.
She took everything he offered and gave back freely. Her stomach fluttered, her skin tingled. There wasn’t a square inch of her unaffected. How was this possible? This was not her first kiss. Had she been doing it wrong all along? Or just doing it with the wrong person?
When the kiss ended she didn’t have a clue how much time had passed. She was out of breath and out of thoughts and out of words.
What was . . . ? She’d never . . . This was . .