“The comments on Pinterest said it wasn’t quite as effective as the chemical versions, but did I mention it’s nourishing?”
Tori snorted. “And now you’re nourishing the blackflies.”
“I suck at being outside.”
“You are surprisingly bad at it for somebody born and raised in rural Maine.”
“Whitford’s rural, but it’s not this rural.” Hailey wanted to point out her parents had chosen Whitford, not her, but a bug almost flew into her mouth, so she closed it.
“Well.” Tori put her hands on her hips. “We’re lost.”
*
MATT BARNETT LEANED against a tree trunk and imagined himself at a crossroads. To the left was the low road. He could continue his walk in peace, making his way back to camp. Crack a beer with his old man. Drop a line in the river.
To the right was the high road, which meant approaching the two women whose voices carried through the trees like sirens. The fire truck kind, not the beautiful women luring sailors onto the rocks. They were lost, and rescuing damsels in distress wasn’t on his vacation agenda.
Then again, vacations weren’t supposed to have agendas. And as much as he wanted to kick back in his favorite fishing chair with a beer, it wasn’t in his nature to leave two women alone in the woods. Unless, of course, they’d done it on purpose and it didn’t sound like that was the case here.
With a weary sigh, he pushed off the tree and made his way to the women. He stepped out onto the path in front of them and had to give them credit for not screaming. They both yelped a little and the brunette dug her fingernails into the blonde’s arm, but no full-blown hysterics.
He couldn’t really blame them for being startled. Being on the downside of a two week vacation, Matt was looking more than a little rough. The jeans and flannel shirt were common enough, but his lucky fishing hat was nothing short of disgusting after years of wear. His hair had been overdue for a cut before the vacation even started, and he hadn’t shaved since the last day he worked. If he’d been holding an axe, the women probably would have fainted.
“You ladies lost?”
“Nope.” It was the brunette who spoke. She looked him straight in the eye while she lied. “We’re all set, but thanks.”
“Where you heading?”
This time it was the blonde who spoke, and she pointed at a spot over his shoulder. “Since we’re facing that way, probably that way. Now if you’ll excuse us, we—”
“Sound carries in the woods, so I know you’re lost.” He had a cabin and a dwindling vacation to get back to. “I’m Matt Barnett. I have a cabin a couple miles from here. I’ve been coming here my whole life and I haven’t buried a single body in the woods yet.”
“We totally believe you,” the brunette said. “Because serial killers always start the conversation with how many bodies they’ve disposed of.”
Even though there was a touch of humor in her voice, he noticed neither of them relaxed, which was good. Women shouldn’t trust strange men who popped out of the tree line. But he also wanted to get this show on the road. If he had to tell them he was a game warden, he would, but he’d try to avoid it if he could. That, more often than not, led to questions and complaints and friends of friends who’d been cited and could he just look into that? He didn’t want to go there, if possible.
“Let’s go with the theory I’m not a serial killer for a few minutes,” he said. “I’m not leaving you stranded in the woods, so the way I see it you ladies have two options. You can let me lead, which means I’ll be in front of you and you can keep an eye on me, or I can shadow you, which means you won’t be able to see me, but I’ll be able to see you. That would be creepy.”
“Or we could run,” the blonde said.
He’d always been partial to brunettes in the past, and this one should have caught his eye. She was cute and had the potential to be a real firecracker, but for some reason it was the blonde who kept snagging his attention. Nothing about her—from the makeup she’d put on her face for a trek through the woods to the brand-new boots on her feet—was his type.
And she was looking at him like he’d just crawled out from behind a Dumpster. He’d seen that look before and he tended to not like women who aimed it his way.
She could probably run. The jeans and the form-fitting fleece zip-up she was wearing accented the fact she was in nice shape. But those boots had to be hurting her and the way her makeup was smearing around her pretty brown eyes told him she’d been sweating. If walking through the woods was an effort for her, running would be a joke.
“Pretty sure I could catch you.”
The brunette snickered. “Of course you’d catch her. I’m faster than her, plus everybody knows the blondes always die first.”
“You guys are hilarious,” her friend muttered.
“I’m Tori,” the brunette said. “And this is Hailey. We’ve gotten separated from our group and, at the rate we’re going, I’m not sure we’ll ever catch up.”
Progress, finally. “Which outfit are you with?”