“One.”
He plunged headfirst into the canyon. Air screamed past his ears. Adrenaline blazed through his veins like wildfire. For one perfect heartbeat, he was back—free, alive, the Liam who’d conquered mountains and mocked gravity. Canyon walls blurred to streaks of color. The river rushed up to claim him. His heart hammered with something that might have been joy.
The cord stretched to its limit before yanking him skyward. His body whiplashed upward.
Then he was falling again.
The bungee snapped taut, jerked him back, and the ride continued.
And as it did, his stomach dropped—not from the bounce, but from cold realization.
The weight crushing his chest hadn’t budged. Not a fraction. As the bouncing stopped, the thrill evaporated, replaced by brutal clarity.
He reallywasbroken. And the old Liam was gone.
Forever.
Bungee jumping at thirty-five.
He’d clearly lost his mind.
Noah Wilde climbed out of his Jeep, gravel grinding under his boots, and immediately regretted every life choice that had led to Saturday’s brilliant idea. His spine screamed protests as he stretched overhead. Two days later and his vertebrae still felt rearranged.
Dawn air bit as an acute pinch shot up his spine. The early morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of dust and sage, but did nothing to ease the knots welding his muscles into concrete.His 4:30 alarm had triggered fantasies of Advil and staying horizontal. Only his promise to meet Meg for coffee had dragged him vertical.
Coffee.Not a date.Noah had zero interest in dating Meg—or anyone else. That door had slammed shut three years ago, welded tight after Mary’s funeral. But somehow, after two summers, their morning ritual had become the one constant in the North Rim’s seasonal chaos. Skip it, and Meg’s laser-focused blue eyes would start dissecting him. The last thing he needed was a clinic visit for what amounted to bruised pride and strained, well, everything.
That’s what he got for letting Teague, a guy ten years his junior, talk him into dangling from elastic over Marble Canyon.Brilliant.For two summers, Noah had perfected the art of being invisible—guiding hikers, mapping trails, consulting on wildlife migrations. No attachments meant no losses. Simple math. But Teague and Liam bulldozed through his defenses like they owned the place, even though he was the boss, thank you.
A strong twinge rattled up his spine as he pushed open the Grand Canyon Lodge’s heavy wooden door. He strangled the wince before it reached his face. Five a.m. transformed the lobby into a cathedral—polished pine floors mirroring sunrise through massive windows, orange light gentling rough-hewn beams and the stone fireplace. He preferred this hour for the silence, but six a.m. would have sufficed. However, Meg arrived at five, so five it was.
“You’re late.” Her voice greeted him the second he cleared the dining-room doors. “Sore from your death-defying leap?” She stood at the coffee bar, considering her morning pastry, and her sideways smile lifted on one side, sly and knowing. Her dark hair was pulled into a no-nonsense ponytail, and today’s scrubs featured R2-D2 in vivid detail. Meg collected medical uniforms like some women collected shoes—each set more outrageousthan the last. The Millennium Falcon pair still held his vote, but this one was climbing the charts.
“I’m fine.” The growl in his voice could’ve stripped paint. Strike one for playing it cool.
“Right.” She selected a bear claw, messenger bag sliding off her shoulder.
Noah reached automatically—mistake. Lightning shot up his spine. His grimace must’ve betrayed him because Meg snatched the bag back, her eyes narrowing. “You’re fine, huh?”
“Will be fine.” He forced his expression neutral, which probably looked constipated, frankly.
She studied him another beat, then headed for their window table where the canyon rim blazed in newborn light. Noah followed, each step calculated to avoid further humiliation.
He’d met Meg his first summer—two early risers claiming the lodge at dawn. Small talk had evolved into shared silence, which had somehow stretched into daily coffee. Black for him, cream and two sugars for her, with the pastry of the day.
They maintained careful boundaries. He’d disappear into backcountry work—clearing trails, mapping, or meeting with researchers to track animal migrations—she’d vanish into her clinic, and that was that. They’d reconvene at sunrise. That first summer, grief had crushed everything else into background noise. Meg never pushed, never probed the shadows under his eyes or the pale band around his finger where his wedding ring used to live. She’d just existed, steady as sunrise, asking nothing.
Last season had reset like nothing had changed. He’d even considered crossing the line, asking her out properly. But grief clung like smoke, and loss lurked behind every possibility. Opening up meant risking the kind of pain that had gutted him when Mary died.
This year felt different somehow. Meg had stopped being just morning routine. She lingered in his thoughts, her laugh echoingwhen he hiked the trail, her smile flashing when he pored over the migration maps.
He couldn’t wait until morning coffee.
Her blue eyes scrutinized him now over her cup rim, not missing anything. “That’s it. You’re obviously in pain. My office. Now.”
“I’m fine.” Even he didn’t believe it this time.
“Course you are. Let’s go.”