Cameron turned. The man was lean, sunburned across the nose, with a canvas backpack and a smile that suggested he knew exactly where the best hidden swimming holes were. His name tag said River Guide: Leo .
Cameron had always run hot. Not in the temperamental sense—though her colleagues at the Vancouver archives would disagree after a third coffee-less morning—but literally. Her internal thermostat ran a few degrees above normal, which made Canadian winters bearable and Canadian summers an exercise in creative suffering.
“And still hot,” she replied.
“Storm’s coming,” said a voice behind them.
“You from around here?” he asked, looking directly at Cameron. cameron canada hot
But here she was, three months later, stepping off a shuttle into a wall of mountain air so thick with pine and heat that it felt like breathing soup. The Rockies rose around her, ancient and indifferent, while the town of Banff simmered in a record-breaking heatwave. Thirty-seven degrees. In the mountains. Even the elk looked miserable.
“You’re weird,” she said, but she was smiling. Cameron turned
“So, Cameron from Halifax,” Leo said, splashing her lightly. “Why do you run so hot?”
The storm broke as they walked back into town, fat raindrops hitting the hot pavement and sending up steam. Cameron didn’t run for cover. She walked right through it, hair plastered to her face, laughing as Leo grabbed her hand and spun her under a shop awning. Cameron had always run hot
“Halifax,” she said. “So, no. I’m basically a fish out of water. A hot fish.”