Zane was up before me—showered, out the door, bathroom surrendered without a fight. By the time I was ready, breakfast was already on the table.
The whole thing was a last-minute decision; we came up with the itinerary in the car on the way there. First stop: Lake Louise. I refused to hike first—if my legs died on day one, day two would be spent horizontal at the lodge.
Banff in early spring had a bite to it, morning air cold enough to fog your breath. Zane shouldered both our bags, then reached over and took my hand like it was the most natural thing in the world, lacing our fingers and tucking them into his jacket pocket.
By the time the shuttle dropped us at the lake, the sun had just climbed halfway up the sky. Light spilled across the water, every ripple catching it in tiny sparks.
"Wow. Oh my God. It's gorgeous!"
Zane laughed low, somewhere behind me. "Yeah. Really gorgeous."
He was not looking at the lake.
When we moved on, I asked him to send me the photos he'd taken. And that's when I discovered: I'd been busy photographing the scenery. He'd been busy photographing me.
My face went hot. "What is wrong with you?!"
He blinked, innocent. "I just wanted to keep the way you look when you're happy."
"Stop! You're not allowed to talk anymore!"
The man only knew how to say dangerous things—things that made you want to kiss him stupid.
I bought snacks all day—drinks, chips, everything—and whatever I couldn't finish went to Zane. I couldn't resist poking at him. "Careful. Keep eating like that and those muscles are gone."
Completely unbothered: "I'll work out tonight."
And then it dawned on me: I'd seen his post-gym photos a hundred times, but never once seen the man actually work out. I was, frankly, curious. That night, Zane satisfied my curiosity. Shirt off, drop to the floor, push-ups. Solid muscle flexing with every rep—broad shoulders, narrow waist, textbook form. And because the man was so pale, the moment blood rushed to the muscle, his skin flushed a faint pink. Frankly? A masterpiece.
Except—
"Zane, no noise!"
He paused mid-push-up and looked back at me, sweat dripping off the hair at his temple, eyes wet. "But Zo... when I'm going all out, it's really hard to stay quiet."
I clamped my hands over my ears. "Then don't do it! It's two days, your streak will survive!"
"Oh." He got up without protest and padded over. "Shower, then?"
I could not let him see my face right now. "GO! Go go go!"
Zane had that warm, even voice—and when he was breathing hard, it went low and rough. It was making me insane.
I kept maximum distance from the man all night. Third grade rules: a pillow wall down the middle of the bed.
Zane pressed a hand to his forehead, long-suffering. "Zo. If you're that worried, I can go book a second room. You trust me with nothing. Fine—until Mrs. Bennett accepts me as her son-in-law, I won't touch—"
I whipped around. "The wall is to keep me out of trouble! And you—no more talking! Zip it!"
Zane finally went quiet. For about four minutes. Then, barely audible: "...You know you could do anything you wanted to me, right?"
I pretended to be asleep. Eyes front. Mind blank. Sleep.
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