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.
“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
