I pull the sheet around me tighter.
CHAPTER 3
DEAN
Saturday night wrecked me.
That's the truth I keep trying to fold into something smaller, something manageable, and it won't fold.
No, I didn't call her. Because I'm a coward who protects himself by leaving first, and my real name is attached to a court record that would make her regret everything. So I let the phone sit on the nightstand and I told myself it was the right thing to do, andfuck, it felt like swallowing shards of glass.
I went into Monday telling myself to keep my head down and my mouth shut.
Your hard work will speak for itself.
I never expected to see Kaylee there.
The ground had dropped out from under me.
She’d stood there, clipboard in hand, with her camp polo and her hair pulled back in a ponytail instead of falling loose around her shoulders the way it had Saturday night.
But whatever warmth was in those eyes two nights ago was gone…as if someone had blown out a candle.
Sheworkshere.
I keep seeing the look on her face when she heard my real name…the betrayal that solidified into a hard shell so fast I almost missed the hurt underneath it. But in that first second: the raw, unguarded second before she locked it down, she waswounded.
Idid that.
The first real connection I've felt in ages, and I set fire to it before it had a chance to breathe…and grow.
But what choice did I have?
The rest of Monday passes in a fog of orientation and self-loathing. Connor walks me through the grounds, introduces me to equipment and protocols and emergency procedures, and I absorb it all to the best of my ability. But underneath the competence, there's a second track running, and it's just her face on repeat. The before and the after.
By Monday night, back in my cabin, I’ve decided two things.
First: If I’m allowed to stay, I’m not leaving. Connor gave me a shot no one else would, and I'm going to earn it if it kills me.
Second: Hopefully, Kaylee doesn’t say a word to anyone about this. I know she’s going to hate me for a long time. Maybe forever. And I'm going to have to stand in that hatred every single day, because that’s the consequence of my actions, and because leaving would mean proving her right about exactly the kind of man I am.
By Thursday, I've memorized the camp's rhythms the way I used to memorize logging roads—by feel, repetition, and showing up before the light changes and staying after it fades.
At six a.m. the kitchen starts clanking.
Six-thirty: I hear Connor's boots on gravel, doing his walk-through.
Seven: the dining hall fills with the smell of coffee and bacon and whatever Teagan's convinced the cook to add to the rotation this week.
By eight, the guests are trickling toward the demonstration areas with their expectations set by whatever Sky posted on Instagram the night before.
The crew fans out. Graham heads to the axes, Ewan to the saws, Rourke to the log-rolling pond, and Brady to the climbing rigs.
And me—I go wherever there's a gap. Wherever I’m needed.
That's the deal right now. Connor didn't slot me intooneprogram. He's rotating me through everything, letting me find my footing, which really means he’s letting the crew decide if I'm worth keeping.
Fair enough. I'd do the same thing. You don't hand a stranger the keys until you've watched them drive.