Page 75 of Nothing But Air

Marcus went first—slow and shaky but safe, his expensive boots scraping the stone with each tentative step. His face was still pale.

Then Teague.

Eden talked him through every move, watching each motion make him wince. The rope ran through her belay device—warm from the sun, rough under her fingers.

By the time they reached the canyon floor, the shadows had shifted and the temperature had climbed higher. Xander helped Teague lower himself to sit against a boulder in the shade.

Eden clenched her hands until her nails bit into her palms. She shoved them into her pockets.

Teague unclipped. Removed his helmet from his sweat-matted curls. Settled against the rock with a barely suppressed wince.

His face was pale. Pinched. The bruise on his ribs would be spectacular by morning.

Marcus still looked sick. Xander was already pulling out the water filtration system.

Eden stood apart.

She stared up at the route. At the slab section where chunks of the jug still clung to the wall, jagged edges catching the light. At the horizontal breaks that had seemed so solid but had failed when it mattered.

A hot breeze pushed past her.

She’d been so sure.

So confident.

And she’d been catastrophically wrong.

“Eden.” Teague’s voice pulled her back. He was watching her with those steady green eyes, even through the pain. “I’m okay. We’re okay.”

But they weren’t.

She could see it in how he held his ribs. In the gouge on his elbow, blood seeping through white gauze. In the near disaster of that cam ripping out.

They’d been inches from catastrophe.

Her call had nearly killed him.

And she had no idea how to live with that.

So much for their afternoon picnic.

Meg stepped back as Noah paced the dispatch office for the fifth time in ten minutes, his boots scuffing against linoleum with each sharp turn. His hand went to his shirt pocket—again—fingers brushing his phone before dropping back to his side.

The man was a walking ball of nerves.

And here I thought we’d finally have that date.

Their second attempt—the first derailed by karaoke yesterday—was getting sidelined again. Instead of watching golden light spill across the canyon while sharing sandwiches and maybe, finally, having a real conversation about whatever was building between them, she stood in this cramped office that smelled of old coffee and electronics.

Romance could wait. Apparently.

“They should have reached their first destination by now.” Noah checked his watch. Third time. “Protocol is to check in within an hour of arrival.”

She’d learned to read him over two years of morning coffees—learned how his brown eyes darkened when worry crept in, how his shoulders climbed toward his ears when he couldn’t fix something. How his jaw turned to granite as he tried to solve the unsolvable.

“Maybe they’re still setting up camp.” Meg moved beside him, close enough that her shoulder touched him. “Or they ran into another trail that was washed out and they had to reroute.”

“Both teams? Besides, Eden would follow protocol.” His voice came out rough. “She knows how important communication is.”