Maybe I can convince her to write about something safer. Like butterflies. Or rocks.
Ten o'clock finds me standing at the edge of the terrace, watching Hurricane Daisy organize what appears to be thecontents of a craft store across one of our rustic wooden tables. Colored pens spill from a woodland-themed pencil case, sticky notes flutter in the morning breeze, and at least three notebooks—all decorated with different forest animals—compete for space with her half-eaten breakfast.
"You're early!" She beams up at me like I'm a gift the universe has personally delivered. "I was getting my research setup ready."
I eye a stack of what appear to be romance novels with suspicious-looking mountain men on their covers. "Research?"
"Oh, these?" She blushes slightly, tucking them under a notebook covered in cartoon bears. "Background material. For atmosphere."
Rascal, who's been dozing in a patch of sunlight, perks up at my arrival. He bounces over, tangling himself in the legs of three different chairs before reaching me.
"Traitor," Daisy mutters as I automatically bend to scratch behind his ears. "He usually takes days to warm up to people."
"Dogs are good judges of character." I straighten up, trying to ignore how her answering smile makes something warm unfurl in my chest. "We need to go over some basics before I let you anywhere near the trails again."
"Let me?" One eyebrow arches challengingly. "I don't actually need permission to walk in the woods, you know."
"No, but you do need a guide if you want to access the private trails." I tap the trail map spread across her table. "The ones with the best wildlife viewing spots. The ones you won't find on public maps."
She practically bounces in her seat. "There are secret trails?"
"Private," I correct, but she's already scribbling in one of her notebooks.
"The mysterious guardian of the forest protects ancient pathways..." she mutters as she writes.
"What are you doing?"
"Taking notes! This is perfect for my story. The grumpy forest spirit who?—"
"I'm not a forest spirit." I drag over a chair, trying to maintain my last shred of patience. "I'm the groundskeeper. And you need proper gear before we go anywhere."
Daisy looks down at her current outfit. She’s wearing another oversized sweater, this one with tiny embroidered mushrooms, and what appear to be leggings covered in constellations. "What's wrong with what I'm wearing?"
"Everything." I pull out the list I made earlier. "You need real hiking boots. Moisture-wicking layers. A proper daypack with emergency supplies. A compass?—"
"I have a phone."
"Phones die. Batteries fail. Electronics aren't reliable in the backcountry."
"Backcountry?" Her eyes widen. "That sounds intense."
"It's what's beyond the marked trails." I try not to notice how the morning light brings out gold flecks in her hazel eyes. "Where the real wildlife is. Where you'll actually see the kinds of interactions you want to write about."
She leans forward eagerly, and a strand of hair escapes her messy bun. I resist the inexplicable urge to tuck it back.
"Like what?"
"Like deer teaching their fawns to forage. Fox kits playing. Bears?—"
"Bears?" Rascal's head pops up from where he's been investigating my boots.
"They're more scared of you than you are of them." I pause. "Usually."
She narrows her eyes. "Are you messing with me?"
"Would I do that?"
"Yes," she says immediately. "You absolutely would. You've got that look."
