Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 88460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Also: Fuck my teammates, who have given me endless shit about all the time I’ve been spending with Lucy when I should have been bonding with them. In fact, they’re probably at dinner right now, talking more shit—all the shit!—schmoozing with coaches and talking strategy. But what’s more important than prioritizing the people we care about most, new as the relationship may be?
So no.
I don’t care about dinner.
Not even a little. I will catch up with them tomorrow.
Scout’s honor.
The guys can roast me all they want. They can call me whipped, soft, distracted—all three things are true. Say what they want, they’re not the ones leaving someone behind they already can’t stop thinking about. I am.
Now? Now I’m making damn sure Lucy knows exactly how impossible it will be to leave her, and I want to show her what she means to me. I have a plan for one last ridiculous adventure lined up, meant to impress. Earlier, I texted her three simple instructions:
Wear boots.
Pack snacks.
Bring your sense of adventure.
What I didn’t text: We’re going Bigfoot hunting!
Goddamn right, we are! Fun surprise, am I right?
I cannot wait to see the look on her face.
Dex was regaling us with the Bigfoot lore the night we arrived—something about sightings in the woods, enormous footprints on the Ice Age trail—and the tale of a man who claims Bigfoot stole his fishing pole and left behind a turd in a granola bar wrapper.
I was like, Dex, bro, that’s not Bigfoot. That’s your cousin Greg.
As usual, he was not amused.
Equipped with a tackle box full of what I’m calling expedition supplies (read: trail mix, two flashlights, a hand-drawn trail map, and some beef jerky), I ease to a stop and throw the truck into park.
Sit back for a second, surveying the same trellis I tried—and failed—to climb, giving it a respectful nod. “We meet again, old friend.”
As if on cue, the side door opens. She steps out onto the porch, looking suspicious and amused all at once, wearing jeans, hiking boots, and a sage green sweatshirt that reads Namaste in Bed.
I watch as she descends the stairs, looking hella fucking gorgeous and already apprehensive. She rolls her eyes and hops into the passenger seat. “If I die, you’re the one who has to explain it to my mother.”
From the dash, I pull out a camo ball cap that says Squatch Squad in neon-orange letters and tug it down over my head. It’s amazing.
She stares at it—then at me. “Where on earth did you get that?”
“The hardware store.” Obviously. I reach back and feel around the seat. “I have one for you too.”
“Whatever is about to happen, I regret it already.”
I grin. “Adventure awaits us, babe!”
She sighs, but I catch the twitch of a smile as she buckles up.
I crank the engine, the truck rumbling to life, and we head in the direction of the trailhead, to the spot where all the locals say to go. It’s a scenic drive, the road winding up into the woods, trees thick and golden with late-afternoon light.
Lucy side-eyes me. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Incorrect,” I say, flipping down my visor and fixing my hat. “I’m enjoying this exactly the appropriate amount.”
It takes fifteen minutes before we pull into the lot. I step out, plant my feet wide, and tip my head back to take it all in. The air is crisp and sharp, filled with the scent of pine sap, fresh earth, and a faint curl of smoke from some distant campsite. The old wooden trailhead sign stands weathered, carved with decades of initials and hearts—proof that plenty of people have passed through here chasing adventure.
“Ahh, nature.” I point at my chest. “Me outdoorsy. Me like forest.”
Lucy snorts as she climbs out of the truck behind me, eyeing me like I’ve completely lost it. “You are so weird.”
I flash her a grin. “Weird and prepared.”
I grab the tackle box—which, frankly, looks more suited for fishing than tracking a beast—and hand her a tall, handcrafted walking stick.
She stares at it. “Did you make this?”
“Pfft, I wish,” I say. “Bought it at the hardware store, along with all the other stuff.”
“Other stuff?”
I pop open the tackle box with dramatic flair. “Ta-da!”
Lucy’s laughing so hard she has to sit down. “You brought candy to bribe Bigfoot?”
“Everyone loves peanut M&M’s. You don’t?”
I let her look around at the supplies before securing the tackle box and pulling the cross-body strap across my chest.
The path stretches ahead of us, winding through towering evergreens, the forest floor soft with fallen pine needles and speckled sunlight. Birds chirp somewhere above us, and every now and then, a breeze rustles the leaves, making the whole forest sound alive.
“All right, Squatch Squad,” she says. “Lead the way.”
I tap the map, squinting into the tree line dramatically. “We follow the ancient markings of our forefathers.”