“I still can’t imagine you in a strict Catholic school,” Cassidy said, remembering the story he had shared during their day on St. Helens about how daydreaming in class had earned him many painful raps on his knuckles.
Pete gave a chuckle. “That’s why I had to get out. Not sure my dad ever quite got over it,” he answered as a shadow passed over his face.
“My family’s not religious at all,” she said.
“Count yourself lucky,” he said, taking a sip of his beer.
“So, what does the future hold for Peter O’Dea?” she asked.
Pete’s face burst into a grin. “A regular feature in Outside, a column in The New Yorker, maybe a book or two . . . ” He tapped his chin. “And a steady gig with Mother Jones.”
“Mother Jones? That’s a little different than your usual beat,” she said.
He swiveled his beer on the coaster. “Don’t get me wrong,” he said, catching her eye. “I love covering the adventure and environment stuff. But I feel like there’s more for me out there. That I should be writing about things like human rights, corruption, social justice . . . ” He shrugged, looking almost embarrassed.
“Sounds exciting,” Cassidy replied, thinking about this for a moment. “Is it dangerous working those kinds of stories?” She had done her homework on him, too, scanning the collection of masthead icons on his website and skimming the impressive stream of headlines under his bio. His stories covered a range of topics related to the natural world: disasters—she read an impressive futuristic take on a tsunami hitting the Oregon coast, a story on hurricanes and climate change, plus many from the adventure angle: climbing routes, eco-travel, and the like. As a staff writer for the Seattle Times, he wrote about how a new coal plant proposal on Washington’s coast would destroy prime salmon smolt habitat, and another story about an illegal mining operation’s tailings leaching into the groundwater. His freelance beats included stories in Men’s Health, Sunset, Sierra, and Budget Travel.
“No more dangerous than working on the flank of active volcanoes,” he said, eyeing her shrewdly.
Cassidy huffed. “Okay, I might break my ankle one of these days, but getting caught in the crossfire of human rights issues or corruption seems more risky.”
“Ever hear the quote: ‘A ship in harbor is safe, but it is not what ships are built for’?” He shifted on his stool to face her a little more. “A buddy of mine is working as a medic overseas right now helping with the immigration crisis in the Mediterranean.” He licked his lips. “He sends me these messages, and I’m blown away by what he’s seeing. I’ve just got this urge to get over there and experience it.”
“Why don’t you?” she asked.
Their eyes met again, and time seemed to slow. She could almost feel him soaking in her words. “I’m trying to.” His lips tightened and he glanced away. “It’s just hard to compete with the big dogs.”
“But it seems like your friend can give you a unique angle,” Cassidy said. “That has to have value.” Her beer was almost gone, and she found herself wishing for their date to continue.
He shrugged. “We’ll see.” The bartender announced the start of the first round of trivia shortly. Pete held up his almost empty glass. “One more?” he asked.
“Sure,” Cassidy said. “Though we’ll have to either play trivia or speak in sign language—it gets pretty loud.”
“I’ll play,” he said eagerly. He caught the bartender’s eye and signaled their empty glasses.
“Are you sure you can keep up?” she asked, feeling bold.
He replied with a wink. “Let’s find out.”
By the time they left the pub it was almost midnight and Pete insisted he drive her home.
“I’m going to take a wild guess that this wasn’t your first win at trivia night?” Pete asked as they walked to his car.
Cassidy felt a slow burn warm her cheeks. “We made a good team,” she finally answered.
“That we did.”
Their fingers touched, and his hand slid into hers, sending a shiver down her spine.
They reached the Jetta. He unlocked her door, and when he turned back, they were standing close. Beneath the streetlight, his eyes shone with a gravity that stilled her galloping heart. “I had a really great time tonight,” he said.
“Me too,” she replied, feeling the shiver move into her toes.
He stepped closer. She raised her face to his and their lips met. Instantly, his warmth spread through her. They kissed again, longer this time, his soft lips closing around hers. The feeling in her belly intensified and she wrapped her arms around his waist. The next kiss was like a thrilling ride down a river, making the blood in her veins whoosh past her ears. When he pulled back, she felt lightheaded.
“I’ve wanted to do that all night,” Pete said with a shy smile.
Cassidy smiled. She loved the way his body fit against hers, and the way his heat was making her feel. But as her attraction for him grew, so did her trepidation.
“I was wondering, do you have any plans for Thanksgiving weekend? Baker’s supposed to open. I might be heading up there with a couple of friends.”
“I’ll be up there too,” she said, excited. “The ski club rents a cabin in Glacier every Thanksgiving weekend. I signed up ages ago.”
“Oh, fun,” he said. “Well, maybe we could meet up on Saturday or something.”
“Okay,” she said.
He reached for her hand. “I should get you home,” he said.
She looked at him, wondering if he could sense her emotions. He kissed her one more time, a slow, sweet kiss that made all the butterflies in her stomach fly in formation.
During the short drive to her house, her thoughts waged war inside her head. Did he expect to come inside her place? Cassidy knew what would happen if he did. She swallowed the nervous lump in her throat.
Pete pulled into her driveway and he walked her
