LOST WITH YOU - Lisa Ann Verge Page 0,16
Dylan strode up to them, pausing to jerk a thumb toward the canoe. “What do you think of it?”
“She’s a beauty, yeah.”
“I used yellow birch bark, just like you taught me.”
Pops squinted. “White cedar for the gunwales and the ribs?”
“And spruce roots for sewing.”
“What did you use to pitch it?”
“What else? Spruce gum.” Dylan grinned, a boy suddenly. “The shed of the old cabin smelled like Christmas for weeks, just like you said it would.”
Pops glanced up at her. “You’re taking this girl with you?”
“Casey, yes.”
“Look for the marker. You can’t miss it.” Pops leaned forward to pat his grandson’s cheek. “Just like I told you.”
“I will.”
Dylan leaned down to kiss his grandfather’s forehead. She swallowed hard. Bill was getting flushed and choked up, too. Even Anne, arms crossed, looked sideways as if to hide the quiver of her chin.
This was the problem with family, Casey thought, her throat closing up. You always wanted to be with one another, but sometimes being together hurt.
“Casey?” Dylan pierced her with those blue, blue eyes. “Are you ready?”
She nodded, feeling the weight of the moment. She’d joined for her own selfish reasons, without knowing much about this expedition. She hadn’t realized until now that the trip came with the burden of family expectations. Which was ironic, since she’d shucked the weight of her own family expectations a long time ago. It was easier to live untethered than to bind herself to those who might break her heart.
She ducked her head and focused on the work that needed to be done, unloading the last of the gear and lashing everything down in the canoe. When the work was done, she took a paper cup from Anne as Dylan wrestled out of Bill’s hands the bottle of champagne his brother threatened to break against the canoe’s stern. With a pop, Dylan filled everyone’s cups and then raised the drained bottle high.
“To Pops’ stories,” he said to a chorus of well-meaning groans. “And to new adventures.”
Dylan shot back his champagne. She swilled a mouthful and let it tingle down her throat. Shoving the bottle and his cup at Bill, Dylan splattered into the water. The time had come to launch.
Casey handed her empty cup to Anne and turned toward the lake, but Anne stopped her again.
“There’s one thing you’d better know right now, Casey Michaels.” Anne’s jaw tightened. “I’m absolutely, positively not buying another bridesmaid’s dress.”
“Sorry?”
“You won’t like it if I wear the one from Dylan’s first wedding. So I suggest you opt for the burgundy velvet I wore at Bill’s wedding. Are you good with that?”
What the heck was she talking about? “Anne…I’m not sure—”
“Oh, I’m sure.” Anne released her with a sharp nod. “I know my brother, Casey. I know how this is going to end.”
CHAPTER SIX
First Day Out.
Dylan curled a hand around a mallet and pounded in the last tent stake on a spit of land on the north bank of the river. He’d thought this tent would be big enough when he’d envisioned sharing it with Garrick. They’d camped often enough to know the rhythm of each other’s snoring, to shove each other if they kicked in the night. But as he imagined himself and Casey inside this nylon shelter, close and warm…he wished he’d bought a damn circus tent.
“Hey,” she said from where she tended the fire, lifting two freeze-dried packets in his direction. “Chicken teriyaki or beef stroganoff?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Pick one, MacCabe.”
“Beef.”
He hauled up to his feet, frustration fueling his hunger. While he’d been away from the camp gathering firewood, she’d changed into an oversized pair of sweatpants and a hoodie, now zipped to her throat. The air hadn’t cooled significantly yet, and the mosquitoes hadn’t quite started biting, but he knew why she was double-wrapped.
A whistling sound rose from a kettle perched on a grate above the fire. Casey leaned over with an oven mitt to slide it off the flame, her hair pulled up into a messy topknot his fingers itched to loosen.
“Dinner’s ready,” she said, pouring hot water into the bowls she’d filled with their dehydrated meals. “I feel like I should finish that sentence by calling you ‘honey.’”
“Honey,” he said, “you can call me anything you want.”
He rounded the tent and caught her dying smile. So much for cutting the tension between them. He saw, on her pale face, that she was worrying about sharing the tent. She sensed the intimacy to come. He wasn’t helping much, standing here, looming.
“I know you packed a camp stove.” She