Good. Squirm, youjerk.
I take his hand since everyone is watching and I'm not about to make a scene. His palm is warm and rough and familiar in a way that makes my insides stir.Jesus.
"Welcome to Timber Run." My voice is flawless…polite. If pretense was an Olympic sport, I'd be on the podium. "Let me know if you need anything to get settled in."
I release his hand, turn back to my clipboard, and make a note I don't need to make.
This is mature, Kaylee. Very mature.
I’m definitely not dying inside.
Not one bit.
The rest of the morning is a masterclass in avoidance.
I have plenty to do—guest check-ins don't manage themselves, and we've got a group of twelve arriving Wednesday for a corporate team-building package that requires coordinating cabins, meal plans, and activity schedules.
I bury myself in it. Spreadsheets. Confirmation emails. Cabin assignments. Normal, manageable, doesn't-make-me-want-to-throw-up work.
But Timber Run is not a terribly large place. And Dean Archer is not a small man.
I see him through the registration cabin window, following Connor on a tour of the grounds. I see him at the equipment shed, nodding while Graham probably explains something about axe maintenance. I see him at the sawing station with Ewan, and walking down to the log-rolling pond with Rourke, and crossing the path between the dining hall and the cabins, and every single time, my body reacts before my brain can stop it.
Heat. Then fury. Then heat again, which makes the fury even worse.
He catches my eye once, across the yard, and there's something there…guilt, maybe, or regret, or some other emotion I refuse to interpret because assuming I know what he’s thinking and feeling is what got me into this mess in the first place.
I look away first…make him watch menotlook at him.
At lunch, Imogen shows up from Serenity Springs spa the way she does most days—breezing into the dining hall with her pink hair clipped back, a butterfly clip holding it off her face, and full of energy. She’s probably already worked out multiple people's shoulder knots before noon. She drops into the chair across from me at the staff table and steals a carrot stick off my plate.
"So," she says. "Brady texted me that there's a new guy. And that you're being weird about it."
What? How could he tell? "I'm not being weird about anything."
"Kaylee, you're eating carrots. You hate carrots."
I look down at my plate. I do hate carrots. But I wanted something I could bite down on hard, that would give me a satisfying crunch. "They came with the sandwich."
"Uh-huh." She glances toward the window where Dean is visible outside, hauling something heavy for Graham. "That him?"
"Yes."
"Okay, he's mega hot. Is that the problem?"
My heart slams. "What? No. There's no problem. Why would there be a problem?"
She studies me. I can feel her reading my body language the way she reads tension in people's shoulders, and I hate that I'm transparent enough for others to notice. I guess my face can be an open book to the right people, and right now the book is titled "Everything Sucks: A Memoir."
"I'm fine, Imogen. Really." I soften my voice. She doesn't deserve the sharp edge for trying to be a good friend. "Just didn't sleep well this weekend."
She doesn't believe me, I can tell. But she nods, squeezes my arm, and lets it go. "I'm here when you want to talk about whatever you're not talking about."
The afternoon is worse.
Connor asks me to walk Dean through the guest registration process since he'll occasionally need to check activity rosters and sign-in sheets. Which means I have to stand next to him at my desk and explain my filing system while pretending my pulse isn't going bananas.
He smells the same. That's the cruelest part. Whatever soap or detergent or just fundamental essence of him I buried my face in Saturday night—it's right there, inches away, and my stupid body responds to it like a Pavlovian bell.