Wesley’s wearing a knitted white cardigan this morning, lounging against the wall and peeling a banana, when I stroll into the kitchen with my camping gear. Cardigans are my kryptonite. I don’t know how he knows, but he knows. What am I talking about? Of course he doesn’t know. He doesn’t care. Oh lord, this is already wretched.

He makes a come here motion and shows me one of the X’s on the treasure map. “I figured we’d start over here, then work our way northeast. The truck won’t be able to pass beyond this point”—he raps a cluster of trees—“so I hope you won’t mind carrying the pack with our food and smaller supplies?” His questioning look prompts me to nod.

Wesley’s pack is considerably larger, containing our tent and sleeping bags. He’ll also be toting a shovel. I think about the roll of toilet paper in my pack and regret every choice I’ve ever made that’s led me to this point.

“Great.” I unscrew a bottled water, proceeding to chug the whole thing.

“Hey.” He bends his knees and tilts to look me in the eye, the ghost of a smile quirking his lips. “You all right? You good?”

“Yep.”

The playful light in his eyes falls flat. “You don’t want to?”

“Are you trying to talk me out of this?” I pick up my pack, narrowing my eyes at him jokingly. “That treasure’s mine, Koehler. Let’s roll.”

The smile returns, bigger now. “Okay, Parrish.”

It’s shaping up to be a balmy spring day, and the drive is gorgeous. Wesley’s pickup barrels through tunnels of green, bright and rich, like being inside an emerald. Irises and bleeding hearts are in bloom, garden-variety flowers petering out the farther we go, overtaken by native plants. He calls them all by name, pointing out lady’s-slipper orchids, phlox, silverbells growing directly out of cracks in the road. We’ll eventually have to get the road repaved, as it looks like it’s endured several earthquakes and an apocalypse. The prospect makes me a little sad. I’m starting to like the wildness of Falling Stars, nature reclaiming what we stole.

All too soon, we’re parking in a field and Wesley’s killing the engine. “This is it,” he announces, opening his door.

“Already?” I grab the map, calculating how far we are from the first X, then how far away the second X is from the first. There are five potential treasure sites. Over two hundred and ninety-four acres.

“Hope you’re wearing hiking shoes.”

I am. With special Dr. Scholl’s socks that are supposed to prevent blistering. The last thing my dumbass libido needs is for my feet to give out on me, leaving Wesley responsible for carrying me home.

“Hope you’re wearing shovel-digging gloves,” I counter.

“Hands are already callused.” He raises his brows, a touch haughty. “I’m in landscaping, remember? No stranger to shovels.”

Oh. Right.

I have no business dwelling on his callused hands, or how sturdy and capable he looks when he shrugs his pack on. I bet he could lift me up on his shoulders right now without a faltering step. If I’m going to survive this, I’ll have to pretend he isn’t my hot exploring companion but a . . . guard bear . . . or something. A bear with the stubble of a beard and minty mouthwash on his breath. And a cardigan. Oof.

I’m fine. I’m fine! I’ll fight this off like an infection.

“So, Koehler,” I begin casually as we slip into the trees. Effortlessly casually. Breezily, in fact. “How’d you get into the landscaping business?”

“I grew up on a farm. Tell me about your dad?”

I nearly walk into a tree.

“Sorry.” He looks it, too. “I didn’t mean to put it so bluntly. It’s just, I’ve been wondering. I know the name Parrish came from your mom’s side of the family. You’ve never mentioned your dad . . .” His face is reddening.

He’s awkward, but I’m about to be even more so. “I don’t know who my dad is.”

“Oh no, I’m sorry. I’m not the best conversationalist—I’m much better in text messages and notes left in dumbwaiters.”

“It’s all right.” I offer him a rueful smile. “You want to hear something bonkers? Whenever I think about my dad I picture Mick Fleetwood. You know who I’m talking about? One of the guys from Fleetwood Mac?”

He laughs. “Are you serious? Why?”

I know this sounds ridiculous. And illogical. “Mick Fleetwood was about forty years old when I was conceived, and also, he’s Mick Fleetwood. I know he’s not my father. And yet.”

He arches a brow. “And yet?”

“It’s funny what the human brain does with one little puzzle piece when it’s missing the rest of the picture. My parents met at a Fleetwood Mac concert. She was more of a Johnny Cash girl, but her friend had an extra ticket.”

Wesley’s eyes are fixed on the forest floor, a wrinkle in his brow. “Mm.”

“That’s all she’s told me about him. Fleetwood Mac’s the only piece of information I’ve got, so even though my dad was probably some scrawny teenager, all my life I’ve pictured the middle-aged guy on the cover of the Rumours album.” Which I bought with my first paycheck, and have memorized. “I think he must have blue eyes, though, because mine are blue and Mom’s are green.”

“My parents have been together since middle school.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah, it kind of sucks for all their kids that our parents found their perfect match so young. They think it should be that easy for everyone. All I ever hear when I visit is that the clock is ticking and I’m going to die alone.”

I wince. “You’re not going to die alone.”