Playing Hurt - By Holly Schindler Page 0,35

me, I had to go and tell him that snotty stuff about thinking kayaking’s as dumb as an eight-track tape. Now I’ll lose the entire day. And the last two haven’t exactly been so great. Ever since that weird hike, when he yanked me away from an orchid and practically tossed me into his truck, things have been—uugh. Professional, of all things.

But kind of detached, too. He’s acting like the guy behind the counter in a fast-food joint who doesn’t really give a crap if I supersize or not. So when I said no to golf or waterskiing (I mean, really—waterskiing? ), he just sighed and shrugged. Hadn’t pushed back. Hadn’t tried to convince me I could do more, like he had when we were at Pike’s. We just hiked again; we went bird-watching.

One full week of my vacation is now gone. Another pyramid of sand is building at the bottom of another hourglass.

Maybe Dad’s right. Maybe I am wasting this vacation. (Bird-watching? Not exactly the outdoor adventure he and Mom had probably envisioned. But I have reasons. Stacks and piles of them. Right?)

I get tingly when I realize that Clint’s walking toward me. Because I start to think, maybe he hasn’t decided I’m the world’s biggest bore. Maybe he’ll ditch the kayakers so we can spend the day together. The idea makes my lungs burn with excitement.

Brandon comes banging out of the cabin behind me with his guitar case. I jump, lose the head of black hair in the distance.

“Don’t those guys have jobs?” I ask. Brandon’s been completely monopolizing Greg and Todd’s time, practicing with them incessantly. I jerk out of the way as he flops his uncoordinated, skinny body across the porch and down the front steps, banging the case against the railing and nearly knocking me in the head with it, too.

“We jam between their fishing runs,” Brandon says, so excited he’s actually out of breath. “And besides, Greg’s got a gig for us later on today. A real gig!”

“Where?” I ask through a frown. “Are you going back to Pike’s?” I shout after him, hoping he won’t be around to ruin things if Clint and I decide to grab a bite later.

What is wrong with you, Chelsea? Forget about that email you just sent … to your boyfriend? Hmm?

“Brand!” I shout again. But he’s too busy shuffling off, his case flopping against his calves, to answer.

“And what about you?” I call after Mom’s skinny back as she scurries along behind him.

“The oven in the cabin’s no good for baking,” she replies, tossing her words over her shoulder with a careless wave. “Chef Charlie’s going to let me use the kitchen in the lodge, in exchange for teaching him how to make a decent pie crust.”

“Don’t you think a chef already knows—” I start.

“He’s a chef, but definitely not a baker. Don’t you have something planned with Clint?”

I certainly hope so …

I glance down at the computer screen, realizing I’ve missed the P.S. in Gabe’s last email: Anytime you feel we’ve been apart too long, he’s written, just look for the Chelsea Keyes Star. I’ll be looking at it, too.

I’m not exactly in the mood for a guilt-fest. So I sign out of my email account and raise the binoculars again, easily zeroing back in on the head of black hair and the muscular jaw that clenched throughout our ride back to the cabin after the orchid hunt. Clint’s shoulders sway with each step he takes up the brown trail that leads straight to cabin number four. I aim the binoculars just low enough to get an up-close view of his slim sides, remembering how his skin warmed my hands through his T-shirt when I touched him on the patio behind Pike’s, challenging him to a dance.

There’s just something about him. It’s like he’s hotter than a steering wheel in August—he burns me every single time I get close enough to touch him. But the thing about a steering wheel in the summer is, even though it stings, you still have to touch it in order to get where you want to go. And besides, sometimes that burn feels kind of good against your hand, anyway.

I shiver. Where did all that just come from?

I put the binoculars and the netbook aside, try to act like my heart isn’t attacking my ribs.

“Just saw your dad up at the lodge,” Clint says, his faded hiking boots pausing at the edge of the bottom step. “I think I convinced