“Dang! That was fast.” I jump up, collapse the two chairs, slide them under the outer flap to the tent, and slip inside.

Avery.

I sigh. This is where I usually plop down on my sleeping bag and listen to the storm. Instead, I have to find her. Maybe Miss I Turned Down A Scholarship is smart enough to find her way back or take cover somewhere else until it lets up.

“Jake! Ahhh!”

Maybe not.

I unzip the tent. Rain surges inside. Why did I agree to this?

Thunder booms, branches screech under the gusts of wind, and a dog barks. It’s hard to see my hand in front of my face, let alone the path uphill toward the truck.

“Jake! Hurry!”

I follow the sound of Avery’s cries for help, my pace picking up as my mind starts to go in crazy directions. Fuck … what if there are bears? What if a tree branch broke and landed on her. How will I explain this to her dad and Deedy? I should have gone with her. My need for a few minutes to myself overrode all other thoughts that might have involved going with her.

Swarley runs up to me, barking while circling me and leading me to the steep embankment. I squint, unable to see her.

Dammit! She fell over the edge.

“Avery?”

“Jake!”

I track her voice. It’s coming from further up the hill. As I jog closer, her silhouette comes into view. She didn’t fall over the edge.

“Hurry!” She points down the embankment.

I inspect her drenched body from head to toe, not seeing any injuries.

“My shoe!”

Glancing over the edge, I catch site of her sandal hooked on a broken root sticking out from the dirt.

“Get a rope before it blows off and lands in the creek.”

“What? How did this happen?”

She turns, revealing mud and grass stuck to her ass and the backsides of her legs. “I slipped and lost my shoe over the edge.”

“Tough break, Princess.” I turn back toward the tent.

“Are you getting a rope?”

I chuckle as the rain starts to let up. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m a chef and I can throw a few good punches, but a lassoing cowboy I am not.”

“But what about my shoe?”

I stop and turn. “You have two suitcases. Surely someone who owns a tiara must travel with more than one pair of shoes.”

“Did I mention they are custom made from Italian leather?” Her fight starts to dissipate into a drowned-rat defeat.

“Yes. Blessed by the Pope, Italian leather. Had you not had that poor cow killed to custom make your shoes, it could have dug its hooves into the ground to keep you from falling off the embankment.”

“Don’t be that person.”

“You mean holier-than-thou?” I wink and keep walking.

“Jake?”

“What? For fuck’s sake, woman. What do you want now?”