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“That’s admirable.”
    “Admirable, huh?” He chuckles. “Thanks, I think.”
    He’s said more words in the last ten minutes than I’ve heard him say in eight years, and apparently he’s tapped out, because we spend the next minute or two walking in silence. Without Leslie’s noisy trailer or my own anger mucking up the silence, the stillness of the forest is stifling. I edge closer to Sam on the trail. Even though we’re walking close enough to brush arms from time to time, he doesn’t reach for my hand. This would be disappointing if it didn’t feel like he’s purposely bumping into me.
    “Selfish as this sounds, I meant what I said earlier,” he finally says.
    I try to remember what he said, but everything is kind of a blur. “Which part?”
    “The ‘I’m glad you came tonight’ part.”
    So I’m not imagining the nudging or the sparks or what I could have sworn was his thumb tracing circles on the back of my hand while we walked to his car. “Mmm. Well in that case, I meant what I said, too.”
    He kicks a rock I’m two steps from tripping over out of my path. “You said the potholes in Leslie’s driveway suck.”
    I swallow my laughter, loving the disappointment in his voice, and nearly choke on the last bit of my mint. “I also said it’s pretty out here.”
    “I remember,” he says. We reach the end of the trail, a secluded place with an ancient, moss-covered log lying on the ground. He gestures to it with the flashlight. “You want to sit?”
    Glancing at the log, I realize my brother’s ties to Leslie are the least of my worries right now. I detest moss, which is ironic seeing as how moss and mildew are practically Oregon’s state flowers. And there are probably millions of bugs crawling on that log. Just because I don’t see any doesn’t mean they’re not there.
    “It looks like it’s wet,” I lie. “You know, from all the mist and stuff.”
    “Oh.” He points the flashlight at the log and peers at it like he’s never seen it before. “You could sit on my sweatshirt, I guess. I’m not cold.”
    The flashlight is on the ground at his feet and he’s grabbing the hem of his sweatshirt before I can tell him it’s not a wet spot on my pants I’m worried about, but slimy slugs and giant centipedes. The words die in my throat. Sam’s gray t-shirt bunches up around his shoulders for the five glorious seconds it takes him to tug the sweatshirt off and smooth the thin fabric back down. I’m so stunned by the hint of a tattoo on his shoulder blade, my “skin phobia” forgets to kick in.
    “What?”
    I rack my brain for any mortifying thoughts that might have slipped out while I drooled over the thought of seeing the rest of that tattoo, but draw a blank. “I didn’t say anything,” I tell him. “Did I?”
    “No, but you’re looking at me funny.”
    Only because you’re gorgeous. And I really, really want to touch that tattoo. “I’m sorry.”
    “Why? You didn’t do anything wrong.” He drapes his sweatshirt over a particularly offensive patch of moss and sits on it. “This okay?”
    Eyeing the remaining fabric, I realize there’s only enough sweatshirt left to protect me if I’m halfway on his lap. This is Sam, though. I don’t believe for a second he expects me to curl up in his lap like a purring kitten.
    I’d like to, though.
    Instead, I gingerly settle on the very edge of his sweatshirt, more balanced on my toes than actually sitting. If something wriggles too close, I’m ready to run like hell.
    “If you’d rather we go back to the house, I’ll understand.”
    I look at him—well, I try to look at him. I can’t turn enough to see his face with seriously twisting my neck because, if I do, I’ll wind up touching the moss. Still, I know what he’s thinking. The insecurity in his voice says everything.
    Never in a billion years would I have expected Sam Donavon to be insecure about anything related to me.
    “Oh, no,” I say as soon as I recover