I avoid this section as much as possible and it shows. Books are scattered all over the place. Travel guides are mixed up with photography books. Books on Australia are beside ones about France. I make a pile on one of the lower shelves and begin to reorganize the section. I’m lost in the task, mindlessly dancing to whatever song the local radio station we always have on is playing, until my fingers skim the spine of a book I remember Gran showing me.

She was so excited when she got it in, said she ordered it specifically so she could give it to me. Hundreds of heart-stopping photos of hiking trails across the world. She knew how much I loved that stuff, and told me she thought I could make one even better, even more beautiful than the stunning book in my hands. She meant it; her belief in me was never-ending. And I believed her.

I flip through the book, still breathless as I look at the pictures of trails from all over the world, many of which are on my bucket list and have still gone unchecked. I pause on the pictures from the Fitz Roy trek in Argentina. It’s at the top of my list. I even started planning a trip not long before Gran passed. I still dream about the jagged mountain range, the glaciers, and the turquoise lakes, which are stunning in photos, but which I know deep down to my bones are life changing to see in person.

I’m lost in the book, my mind running away from me, drifting off to dangerous thoughts of what-ifs and maybes, when a hand on my shoulder startles me back to reality. I drop the book and it just misses my toes before landing on the old carpet with a heavy thud.

“Sorry!” a voice I didn’t think I’d hear again so soon says. “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

I turn around and look up into eyes that rival the lakes I dream of visiting. The small lines creasing around them aren’t like the smile lines I’ve seen on his gorgeous face before. He looks tense, concerned. Probably worried I’m going to unload on him again.

“Oh. Hi! No need to apologize.” I infuse way too much peppiness into my voice and sound slightly demented even to my own ears. “What are you doing here?”

I realize, after the words leave my mouth, that they sound much ruder than I intended . . . especially since I didn’t mean for them to sound rude at all.

“I mean. Not that . . . I just—” I stumble over my words as my cheeks begin to heat. Embarrassment seems to be unescapable when I’m in Jasper’s presence. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, hoping it will help me string words together in a coherent sentence. “I wasn’t expecting you.”