I lunge away from the river. The second bottle falls into the rapids, along with the pump filter. I’m disoriented for a moment, unable to hear anything. The bottle bobs and disappears under the foam. I start to run after it, but a stony hand grabs my arm.

“Leave it!” Lennon shouts, dragging me away from the river.

He grabs my hand, and I can tell by how hard he jerks me down the path through the ferns that he’s not fooling around. We’re in trouble.

My heart hammers as I race after him in the rain, the green scent of sorrel and moss rising up from the soles of my shoes. And I smell something else, too: like Christmas on fire. The lightning. It singed the treetops.

That scent terrifies me.

I scramble across slick, springy ground, and our tents pop into view. Before we can make it there, lightning strikes again. For the first time in my life, I truly get the whole Zeus-throwing-bolts thing, because that’s what it looks like. As though an angry god is zapping Earth with a giant laser gun. It sounds like a bomb, and shakes the entire ground. Shrubs, these enormous trees, us—everything.

I think I’m going to wet my pants in fear.

My mind has flipped off. I want to cry, but I’m too scared. I’m nothing but blind terror and am wholeheartedly convinced I’m going to die.

All these giant trees, and yet there’s nothing here to protect us. No shelter. No door to close and hide behind. No car in which to outrun the storm. And it makes me feel small and helpless.

Right before we make it to the tents, Lennon pulls me down on the ground and crouches over me.

Boom!

My world goes white.

I’m squatting in something that’s neither dirt nor mud, soaked to the bone, and the rain is driving down on us while burning wood fills my nostrils. It feels as if it will never end. Just kill us, I think. Go on, get it over with.

Lennon’s muscles are steel when the next strike comes. But I feel him jump, too. It’s as if we’re in the middle of a war zone. Seconds later, another strike hits.

But.

This one isn’t as loud. Or as close. The thunder and lightning are separating again. We wait—for seconds or minutes, I don’t even know. But at some point, the world doesn’t feel like it’s falling apart around us, and Lennon’s body loosens.

Is it over? I still hear thunder in the distance.

“We’re all right,” Lennon’s voice is saying in my ear. “Told you it was a big storm, didn’t I? And listen to that. It’s moving more slowly now. I’m still counting thunder. Slow means a lot of rain, but we’re out of the lighting zone for now. Come on, let’s get up.”

He pulls me to my feet, and I can’t see. “My glasses,” I say.

Lennon looks around. “You lost them somewhere.”

“I lost the water bottles, too.”

“One’s on the riverbank. We’ll get it later. And we have another filter. Worse comes to worst, we’ll boil water.”

And I can live without glasses for a couple of days. I’m too numb to worry.

He lifts up my chin. “It’s all good. You okay?”

“Yeah,” I say, nodding.

“That was intense.”

“That was . . .” I laugh. I can’t help it. I’m not sure if it’s nervous laughter or just a release, but I’m pushing wet hair out of my face and laughing. “We just nearly got blown out of our shoes. We almost died.”

“No, Zorie, we just lived.” Lennon lifts up both arms and pumps victory fists, yowling. “We’re alive! We won!”

He’s right. We did live. Survival is a beautiful thing. I laugh again and hold up my dirty hands, letting them fill with rain until the mud washes away. Adrenaline is still coursing through my veins, and I feel invincible.

Lennon shoves dark hair out of his eyes. His clothes stick to him, clinging to his shape. Every sharp plane. Every muscle. It’s practically X-rated. Or maybe that’s exactly what it is, because I blink away rain and see his gaze roaming over me too. And there’s nothing polite about the way he’s looking at me.

Maybe the storm broke something in both of our brains.

I inhale sharply. He makes a low noise in the back of his throat.

Our gazes lock.

We both pounce on each other at the same time.

He pulls me against him, one arm slung around my shoulders, his other hand cupping the back of my head. His rain-slick clothes are cold, but his mouth is hot on mine. He kisses me hard. It’s an impatient, greedy kiss. Ravenous. And when thunder rumbles in the distance, I jump a little, but I don’t let go.

My back hits the smooth, wet bark of a sequoia, and he presses himself against the length of me. He’s taut and solid, a brick wall of lean muscle, lifting me up until my toes skim the tree’s bumpy roots. And when he pushes his hips against mine, I push back, feeling unmistakable hardness between us. A thrill zips through me.

My legs wrap around his hips, and he’s holding me in place against the tree, pinning me as he warms my neck with kisses. I smell his hair and the scent of sequoia bark, and the rain is coming down so hard, my grip around his shoulders is slipping. I throw both arms around his neck and cling.

“Tent,” he says into my ear. I’m not sure if it’s a question or a statement, but I’m telling him yes. And he tells me to hold on, but I think if I hold him any tighter, I’m going to break bones. My back leaves the tree, and he’s carrying me several steps. We slide in the mud, and when he sloppily sets me down in front of the tents, I’m clutching so hard, I nearly pull us both down. His head bashes into mine.

“Oww!”

We’re both laughing, and I feel a little delirious. “We’re drenched,” I say.

He pushes wet curls away from my face. “Yeah.”

“The sleeping gear’s going to get wet.”

“Maybe we should just, I don’t know”—he shrugs slowly—“get out of these clothes before we go in.”

My pulse pounds in my ears.

Naked.

Lennon.

Me.

Us.

“That would be the practical thing to do,” I agree, trying to sound casual.

But this is so not casual. And we both know it.

We lunge for each other, and he’s stripping off my shirt. My arms are tangled, and he’s laughing, trying to peel away the wet fabric. It gives, and his arm flies back. My shirt hits the tent with a loud slap.

Lennon pauses for a moment, looking me over, a slow smile lifting his cheeks. “Are we doing this?” He sounds dazed.

I’m a little embarrassed, but not enough to stop. “Oh, we’re doing this.”

Shoes and socks are dropped in the mud. And then I get his shirt off, and we’re both attacking each other’s jeans as if they’ll self-destruct if we don’t get them off fast enough. And oh, okay, wet boxer shorts are definitely pornographic. I CAN SEE EVERYTHING, and I can’t stop looking—I don’t even care that I’m shivering in my bra and panties in the middle of the woods.

“Wait, wait, wait.” I put a hand on his chest. My mouth moves faster than my brain. “You can’t get me pregnant,” I tell him firmly.

Lennon’s face contorts as several expressions flash. “That’s something a guy never thinks he’s going to hear.”

“I mean, I’m sure you could, which is the problem. I just didn’t plan for this. That’s what I meant.” Ugh, idiot, I think, suddenly self-conscious. I was thinking of what happened with Andre, and how stupid we were. And now I’m making assumptions, because we’re getting naked. Should I not be making assumptions? I’m completely rattled now.