A Family Under The Stars. Christy Jeffries

reaction to Alex Russell’s looks aside—which she could easily do—there were other complications to being out in the middle of nowhere, cut off from everything she was used to.

      Charlotte had never left her children alone overnight, and although her friend Kylie had offered to host the girls for their first-ever slumber party back in the town of Sugar Falls, Charlotte was relieved they’d be cutting this two-day excursion short. Not that she didn’t appreciate the natural beauty around her—or the one in the boat with her—she just didn’t feel comfortable being out of communication with her daughters in case something happened to them. Or in case they needed her.

      Kylie had laughed at the fact that Charlotte arrived in town last night with eight suitcases, half of the stuff belonging to her daughters. But she didn’t want them to be without their favorite blankets, stuffed animals, markers, pajamas—long sleeved for cooler weather and shorts if it became too warm—Junie B. Jones books or unicorn puzzles.

      It would’ve just been smarter to postpone the whole weekend. Or call it off. The colorful Victorian buildings in the quaint mountain town where her friend lived housed plenty of antiques shops and homey restaurants that could have filled the pages of her magazine with food and decorating ideas.

      But then her article wouldn’t have been much more interesting than a destination travel piece, and the career she’d been trying to build would never gain traction.

      Plus, she’d recently read an autobiography by a woman who, years ago, had left her life as a political speechwriter to travel to Idaho to commune with nature and find herself. The book opened Charlotte’s eyes to how people could learn to adapt with the barest of necessities and find beauty all around them.

      But clearly, that author had lived a more unfettered life than Charlotte, who’d had to decide whether to leave behind her kids. Charlotte had debated whether or not to go during most of the ride to the site, and then again for several minutes before they’d finally launched the raft and waved goodbye to the senior Russell, an interesting character who liked putting on a show of being ornery and gruff.

      Now, though, her decision had been made. She was out here on this beautiful river, which was way more choppy and rock-filled than she’d expected, and she would make the best out of the situation.

      Even if her arms turned to al dente linguini from rowing so much. This was nothing like sleepaway camp, and she’d bet the river jock sitting behind her had struggled to keep a straight face when she’d stupidly boasted about her experience.

      “Can I give you a hand with that?” she asked the younger Russell when he hopped out of the raft and waded through the knee-deep water to pull the raft toward the pebbly shore. She may not be much in the paddling department, but she was used to doing everything for herself and for her girls back home. Charlotte hated being taken care of, or worse—having someone think she needed to be taken care of.

      “Nope. You’re the customer.” The man’s sleeves were rolled above his forearms and she tried not to stare at the defined muscles as he easily maneuvered the whole thing, including her and the heavy supplies, close to a sturdy-looking overgrown bush submerged in the water.

      Besides some initial instructions and an overview of the local terrain and hidden dangers lurking beneath the river’s surface, her guide hadn’t been too talkative up until this point. And Charlotte had been concentrating so hard on her paddling—and not plowing them into a submerged boulder—that she hadn’t asked many questions. In fact, her clenched jaw was almost as sore as her arms.

      “You don’t have to treat me as a customer,” she said, trying to gracefully climb out of the raft while he secured the rope tie to one of the thicker branches. “I know the circumstances are not ideal and I’d like to pull my own weight.”

      “Miss Folsom,” he started, but she quickly interrupted him.

      “Please, call me Charlotte. Being called Miss Folsom reminds me of when I was in boarding school and would get called to the headmistress’s office.”

      He took off his sunglasses and let his smoky green eyes travel up and down the length of her body before saying, “You don’t really strike me as the type to get into trouble.”

      Really? Because she sure felt like she was in trouble just by the way his tone had seemed to grow in exasperation as the afternoon wore on. Charlotte unbuckled her life vest, thinking it had suddenly grown too tight. “I’m not.”

      “In my experience—” he walked to the rear of the raft and unstrapped one of the boxes of supplies his grandfather had tied down before driving off and leaving them all alone “—when people go to the principal’s office, it’s because their teachers can’t handle them.”

      “Well, in my case, it was typically because my parents were too busy to handle me. No, not like that,” she said quickly when she realized that sounded even worse. “I didn’t need handling. I was usually called into the office to find out that I’d be staying on campus during holiday breaks.”

      “Your parents still around?” he asked. She would’ve thought his thick baritone voice sounded a bit annoyed if he’d lifted his head out of the open supply crate long enough to look in her direction.

      “Well, they’re alive, if that’s what you mean. Mother is in Paris, and the last time I spoke with her assistant, she said my father was in Dubai on business.”

      Mr. Russell, who’d yet to return the courtesy of inviting her to use his first name, raised his head, and Charlotte immediately recognized the sympathetic look in his eyes. She’d seen it all her life. Poor little 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,”