Glued to my side, Beau introduces me to almost everyone. Being a new face must be exciting for the little group because everyone wants a piece of my attention. Despite Nora's and Caleb's dislike and Owen's faux-hostility, almost everyone else is enthusiastic, or at least curious to talk to me. The group—some thirty people—is made up of all ages, from a fearless toddler to a white haired grandmother chasing him up and down the shore. I get asked about work, where I'm from, where I went to school... like the boring details of my life are as exciting as the latest TV show.

"Are you all related?" I finally ask Beau once we're handed a plate of steak and grilled potatoes and the group's interest starts to wane. He leads me to a driftwood log, a little ways from the rest of the group, near the waters edge.

Beau runs a hand through his dark blond hair. "Most of us," he says. "Marcus, you know, is my uncle. Nora is my second cousin. Lila's family, though, just moved here a few years ago from up north. And Caleb is a sort of stray we adopted."

Marcus is tossing the toddler in the air, much to the child's shrieking delight. Owen is tossing bottles in the air and catching them behind his back, like he's done something incredible. Ethan, who'd grilled me all about my education, is smiling at something Nora muttered. Lila is watching Owen show off with a longing, sort of dreamy expression.

There's a hum of energy between all these people, a tangible connection. And Beau is in the center of it all. It's in the way that Nora defers to him. The way Lila seems more confident when he's near. Even Owen, for all his arrogance, seems desperate to impress him.

Beau has a way of drawing people in. And more than that—he brings something out in them.

Jealousy starts rising in my chest.

I've never had anything like this.

A community. A group of people who would notice if I was gone.

The thought is sharp and unexpected. And unwelcome.

A loud crash interrupts by thoughts.

Owen has knocked over one of the tables and sent plates of corn and potatoes to the ground. I expect a rise of his boisterous laughter, but his breathing is heavy. His cocky smirk is gone, replaced by something strained.

I tense. There's something wrong.

His shoulders are shaking, hands are clenched. The air around him seems charged. I don't understand what's happening, but everyone else is very still, watching.

Beau is already on his feet, moving to Owen's side. I follow, just a few steps behind. I can barely see around Beau, but he pulls the kid to his feet and holds his arm like a vice. "Come on," he murmurs. "Walk it off."

For a moment, it seems like Owen's going to resist. But then Beau says something low, too quiet for me to catch, and Owen exhales sharply before nodding once.

Beau leads him to the trees, snapping a curt, "Stay here," when I absently try to follow. And then he nods to a the massive figure of Caleb who'd been lingering near the tree line. Though his blue eyes haven't warmed to me in the slightest, Caleb is immediately at my side, pulling me away from where Beau and Owen disappeared int the trees.

"Owen has a medical condition," he says.

"What kind of condition is that?" I ask, frowning.

Caleb holds my gaze for a long moment. "Seizures. Overstimulation triggers them."

It is a perfectly reasonable answer. A perfectly delivered answer. I am not one of these people, I remind myself. I am not owed anything more than what Caleb's said, but there's something itchy about this. I glance at the the gap in the trees where Beau and Owen disappeared. Without Beau, that sinking feeling of otherness, of outsider, returns full force. That little tug in my chest pulls tight, and I am washed in foreign emotion. I want to be in my own bed, lights off, tucked away from the world. It's so completely irrational, that I almost wonder if my period's started, because—fuck—I can almost feel tears burn behind my eyes.

"Come on. Let me bring you back over to the fire."

I don't take Caleb's offered hand, but I do follow him back to the bonfire. After my mad sprint through the woods yesterday, I should be in no hurry to take off into otherwise dark trees... but the urge is writhing in my stomach. Caleb seems to see it, because he puts himself between me and the forest, herding me back to the group.

Everyone has returned to their chatter, but I feel their eyes on me. Like the town hall, I get this feeling that I need to put on a performance. That they're expecting something from me. So I keep my chin up and keep my mouth in a soft smile at their stares. I try to ignore how tight my skin suddenly feels... and that persistent voice in my chest begging me to run.

"Come sit with me, Rhea," Marcus says, patting the bit of log next to him.

I hesitate for only a second, but I settle onto the log beside Marcus. I'd rather sit with him than the brooding Caleb. Marcus immediately pushes a can of pop into my hands. The cool aluminum is a soothing contrast against the blanket of heat coming from the fire.

"You okay?" He asks. Marcus keeps his voice low, just loud enough to cut through the cracking of the fire. I get the feeling that Caleb, standing a foot behind like some sort of reluctant guard dog, can hear, but I decide I don't care. His opinion of me is already in the gutter.

I force a small, wry smile. "I don't really like having all eyes on me."

Marcus chuckles. "I wouldn't have guessed it. You've got a good poker face, Rhea Dawson. Where'd you learn it? You have a card shark somewhere in the family tree?"

Despite all the questions I received earlier, none had really been about my family. I had mentioned my mom in a few answers, but no one had seemed interested to push further. This segue is expected. The question is innocent. It flows naturally.

And it feel so intentionally placed that it makes the skin of my back prickle. Is this just the typical family vetting? Uncle Marcus trying to figure out if I come from good enough stock to bring into the fold? Or is this something else? Because the way he's watching me makes it feel like there's weight behind this question. Like he's looking for something.

I drum my nail on the can's edge, telling myself I'm being ridiculous.

"No," I say. "Or at least, I don't think so. My mom wore her heart on her sleeve. And as far as I know, my dad did construction."

"Didn't know him?"

I shrug, shaking my head. My mom never liked to talk about my birth father. I always thought that she was looking for him—or maybe running from him—and I was too chicken to ask which it was. All I knew was that I didn't get my height or my dark hair and eyes from my tiny blonde mother... and that my mom loved him enough to cry when she didn't think I could hear her.

"My mom didn't really talk about him. I don't even know his name."

Marcus leans back, contemplative. The firelight flashes in his eyes.

"Must have been hard," he says after a pause. "Growing up not knowing."

I take a sip of my drink. The carbonation fizzes, bright and sweet, against my tongue, but it doesn't quite wash away the sour taste in my mouth.

"Not really." I don't elaborate further. It's the truth, but it feels like a lie, the way in echoes between us. I want to defend my mom, that she was more than enough for me. But I've already shared more about myself in these last few hours than I've shared with my co-workers of the last few years. It makes me feel like my skin is being peeled off, inch by inch so that they can examine the little squishy bits inside me. I get the distinct feeling that Marcus isn't satisfied by my answer, that this is more than small talk. I feel it from Caleb, too, even though he's just a silent, surly shadow.

Marcus hums. "It's good for a body to know where they come from. Family is everything."

Again, the words are perfectly appropriate, casually said, but they irritate me. I force my expression to remain pleasant. I force my voice to stay unaffected.

"What's with all the interest? Worried I have more than a secret card shark in the family?"

Marcus grins. "Just trying to place you, Miss Dawson. You have a familiar look to you."

"Familiar?" There's a prickle of foreign energy underneath my skin.

Caleb shifts his weight between his feet. I don't have to turn to know he's glaring at Marcus. I can see it in the satisfied, slightly mischievous twitch of the older man's mustache.

"Maybe you ran into my mom a long time ago," I offer. "She grew up not too far from here."

"Maybe." But he doesn't elaborate, nor does he seem to think that's the case.

I open my mouth to push the conversation back to the fun, comfortable topics I enjoyed all afternoon. To topics far away from this strange undercurrent of scrutiny that makes me feel like I should escape. Before I can, the sound of voices approaching the fire pulls my attention. The little tug that had been coiling itself around my ribs eases, and I take a steadying breath.

Beau.

From behind the shadows of the fire, Beau appears with Owen trailing behind him. Owen looks pale, his energy subdued, but steadier. He gives a sheepish smile to Nora when she asks how he's feeling, accepts a few pats on the back from the others standing close by. He doesn't seem to notice Lila's blushing attention fixed to him.

While Owen looks peaky, Beau looks, well, fucking amazing.

The shadows from the fire caress his face, highlighting the edges of his jaw, calling forth the silver in his thundercloud eyes. No one is worried about him or asking over his health, but his presence shifts the atmosphere effortlessly, like he is the center of whatever unspoken force holds this group together.

Beau is comfortable here, easy in his own skin. Instead of feeling soothed by it, I can't help but think about how different we are. He's not forced or performative. He just simply belongs. Like the mountain air belongs. Like the lake belongs.

Rhea Dawson, however, does not.

The thought twists in my throat.

Beau's stormy eyes are fixed to me. From that little pull at my sternum, sudden wave of reassurance warms through me. His gaze sweeps over me, like he's making sure I'm okay. It's a look that settles my nervous thoughts and makes my fingers stop tapping at the can of pop on my knee.

Owen plops down heavily on the other side of the fire, and as he does, Marcus slips away to go speak with him. The conversation picks up again, but Beau doesn't move to join the others. Instead, he sits with me in the spot Marcus had vacated. I notice Caleb has also vanished. In fact, it's just Beau and me with the fire separating us from the others and the lake guarding our backs.

Next to him, his knee next to mine, I can't decide if the fire is hotter than the heat coming off his body. All the nerves that just eased with his presence burn with a bright anticipation, like every single cell is hyperaware of him. My bones seem to sigh as Beau drapes his arm around my shoulders. It's a casual move, but undeniable deliberate.

It should feel possessive. I should be annoyed.

But it doesn't. I'm not.

It just feels right.

My heart trips over itself for a beat, but I force my voice to stay steady. "Everything good?"

Beau's fingers flex, the smallest motion against my upper arm. "Yeah," he says, low. "Everything's perfect now."

And I don't know what to do with that. Especially not as the little tugging spot in my chest seems perfectly at ease, humming in quiet contentment.

So I watch the fire as it sends crackling embers into the darkening sky. Conversations weave and fade, but I don't catch much of them. Beau's fingers are tracing little shapes against me, and I'm desperately wishing that there wasn't his flannel between us. I'm trying to think up ways that I can convince him that we should head back to his place.

It's comfortable. Too comfortable.

The sudden, very logical, realization that I barely know this man washes over me. This is not normal. This isn't me. Something is wrong, and I need to go.

I shift slightly, half-expecting Beau to take the hint and move away, but he doesn't. He leans in, surrounding me with the intoxicating warmth of his body, as if to whisper something to me. The barely-there touch of his lips against my ear makes my breath catch, my pulse skitter from nameless anxiety to thoughtless desire. It almost makes me forget the very important truth that's been gnawing at my chest all day: I do not belong here.

I need to say something. Anything.

"It was really nice of you to invite me," I murmur, leaning so that I'm looking into eyes. Leaning so that his breath isn't flirting with my earlobe. Leaning so that that there's a fraction of space between us. "Even if the last part was a little weird."

Beau gives me a rueful smile, strokes absently along my arm as his drops from my shoulders. As he puts inches between us, the little tug in my chest pulls unhappily. But the breath of fresh air—air not drenched in the heady pine, smoke, and sunshine—lets me ignore its insistence.

"Weird, huh?"

I rub my arms, at a loss for words and already missing the weight and heat of him. I'm sure Marcus, or Caleb, would fill him in later, and I just can't seem to find the right things to say. A part of me aches to vomit up my side of the story before someone else can editorialize my answers. But the dropping temperature between us, let's me keep my tongue in check. And Beau tenses slightly. He sighs.

"Yeah," he finally says, his voice quiet. "I know what you mean."

Though I can still feel the weight of his gaze, watching the flames dance along the driftwood gives me a reprieve from the intensity of meeting his eyes. He shifts and reaches into his pocket. A second later, he's holding my car keys out to me.

I blink at them, pausing a moment before I take them from him.

"Marcus got the tires changed out," Beau says. "It's parked outside my place."

"That was fast."

Beau lets out a breath of laughter. "Marcus is pretty single-minded when it comes to fixing things up."

There's affection in his voice, and it makes my stomach sink lower. As the weight of it pulls down, that taut thread of longing twinges. I don't belong here. Maybe the old Rhea Dawson might have been able to guilelessly charm her way into this community, but I'm not that girl. The only charm I have is cold, practiced, and far too saccharine for this little world. Despite my earlier thoughts of seducing Beau, the rising desire to run is eclipsing any ideas of sex.

"I guess I should get going then," I say, standing. I glance at Marcus and Owen and Caleb and Nora and the rest of the group laughing across the bonfire. "Let Marcus know he can send me an invoice for the tires."

Beau stands with me, and I swear I hear a rumble of discontent, but his face is smooth. "Let me walk you back," he says quietly, nodding to the lake shore trail.

I want to protest, but I also know that he won't accept my refusal, so I nod. I try not to note how the group watches us leave, or for some, pretends not to watch us leave. Marcus's mustache is twitching, Caleb is glaring at me, Nora is glaring at the fire. No one makes a gesture of goodbye, and I can't decide if that makes things better or worse.

Beau and I walk in the silence of twilight shadows and early stars. His hand is on the small of my back, gently guiding me over the trail that's become a little more treacherous in the dark. It's a perfectly gentlemanly touch that makes me wonder if he took my hesitance at the fire as a rejection. Fuck. I know I'm overthinking it. I don't even know what I want at this point... but when it's just him and me, all I can feel is that insistent gravity between us, begging for collision.

It can't be more than a ten minute walk, but it feels both impossibly short and unbearably long in our lack of conversation, in the conflicting ebb and flow of my brain. True to his word, my car is parked next to his truck, already lined up to escape on a bit of the gravel road I know my suspension is going to hate. My little hybrid looks absurd next to his mud-spattered truck. The visual helps me clear my head, and I almost smile at the absurdity of comparing us to vehicles.

Even having decided that this would never work, that I need to escape back to the city, I fiddle with my keys, wondering the best way to say goodbye to this disturbingly attractive man who has me turned inside out. I still wonder if there's a way we could make this work, at least one time. Would fucking Beau Forrester ease this longing next to my heart, or would it only make the withdrawal worse?

Beau's hand falls and he watches my face for a moment. With a gentleness that almost hurts, he tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear. He leans in, just enough so that the sunshine and pine smell of him surrounds me again. It makes my brain feel fuzzy and warm and stupid. I'm staring at his mouth, all thoughts of not belonging pushed aside, silently begging to know what his lips would feel like on mine. That gravity between us pulls hard. I can see a few freckles on his cheeks. I can feel the impossible heat of his body.

My heart is pounding in my ears, deafening in its celebration. Because for a single, fleeting second, I think he's going to close the distance.

He pulls back.

The cold rush of space between us is almost painful for reasons I can't understand. I don't move. I don't breathe. I'm still frozen in anticipation for something that isn't going to happen.

Beau clears his throat, glancing away. "You should get on the road before it gets too dark," he says. His voice is almost rasping. "It's late."

I swallow against a rising lump in my throat, nodding. "Yeah. Sure."

Now that I can breathe again, I don't know what I was expecting. Maybe he doesn't feel this annoying pull between us. Maybe I misinterpreted the flirting, the casual touches. It's hard to tell in the dying light, but I can almost hear his own conflicting thoughts. I imagine he's looking at me, the corporate bitch decked out in flannel, unable to camouflage what she truly is. Maybe after seeing her with his family, he realized that Rhea Dawson isn't even worth a quick fuck. That he should cut her loose.

His expression becomes unreadable, and then cold. "Take care of yourself, Rhea," he says, voice still gravely. "And no more solo hiking, you hear?"

I press my lips together, forcing a smile. "Goodnight, Beau."

Before I can hesitate, before I can go back to second-guessing everything about this night, I retreat to my car. Each step makes the thrumming pull of that little thread a little louder, a little more uncomfortable. It thunders as I pull away, refusing to look in the rearview mirror at the man I know is watching me go.

When I clear the access roads and reach the highway, I shove away that lying, little gravity between us and surrender to the anxiety to escape.