The interaction fills me with a warmth I’m not used to…a specific ache of wanting something you're not sure you're allowed to want. A kid calling your name across a yard. Small hands tugging your shirt. Someone who just assumes you'll be here tomorrow because you were here today.
I’m starting to understand why Connor is so protective of this place.
It's not just a business. It's a web. Everyone here is connected to everyone else, and those connections run on trust, trust that the crew knows what they're doing, that the equipment is maintained, that the guests are safe, that the people behind the scenes are exactly who they say they are.
And here I am…woven into the fabric under false pretenses.
Well, not exactly. Connor knows. Connor made the call. But the rest of them—Graham, who just told me I'm good at something. Rourke, who said I'm doing grand. Teagan, who lether son talk to me. They don't know what I am. They don't know that the man hauling their equipment and teaching their guests has a felony assault conviction and a history of disappearing.
If it came out it would ripple outward the way things do in small towns. It wouldn't just be my problem. Connor would have to answer for hiring me. Parents would question whether their kids were safe around me. The social media attention Sky's built for this place could flip from asset to weapon overnight.
Eco-tourism camp employs convicted felon in wilderness safety role.
I can see the headline now.
I watch the guest families crossing the yard toward their cabins after dinner, kids on shoulders, couples holding hands, and my stomach churns. These people trust this place with their vacations, their safety, their memories.
The crew trusts Connor, and Connor trusts me, and I make sure to remind myself of that every chance I get.
Later, I'm returning a set of splitting wedges to the equipment room—a converted shed behind the main demonstration area, with shelves and hooks covering every wall. It smells of iron and pine pitch and chainsaw oil.
I'm sorting the wedges when I hear the door.
Kaylee steps in, head down, reading something on her clipboard. She doesn't see me until she's three steps inside.
We both stop.
The room is maybe ten by twelve. With one door and minimal lighting. She's between me and the only exit, and I'm standing at the back wall by the shelving units, staring at her like a moron.
"Sorry," she says, quickly. "Didn't know anyone was in here. I need to restock the front desk first aid kit." She nods toward the upper shelf where the bulk supplies are kept: Band-Aids, gauze, tape, antiseptic...
She moves past me toward the shelves and reaches up, but the box she needs is pushed to the back of the top shelf, well past her fingertips.
"I can get that."
"I've got it." She stretches higher, rising onto her toes, and the shelf wobbles. The box starts sliding toward her.
I'm already there. And my hand goes up over her shoulder, palm flat against the box, and I ease it down. But the space is too narrow, and my chest presses against her back. The soft warmth of her body nearly has me groaning.
She goes still. I freeze with my arm still extended above her, hand on the box.
I can smell her shampoo…that same tropical sweetness I remember, and my body responds to it before my brain can intervene—a full-system recognition that makes my jeans tight. My breath catches against the back of her neck, and I see the goosebumps rise.
She doesn't turn around. I don't step back.
Three seconds. Maybe four. Long enough for my heartbeat to become the loudest thing in the room.
"The box," she says. Her voice is low and tight.
I slide it off the shelf and set it on the workbench beside us, and when I pull my arm back my knuckles brush her shoulder and she flinches.
"Thanks." She doesn't look at me. Just grabs the box off the workbench and holds it against her. "Could you not—" She stops. Regroups. "Never mind."
"Sorry, Kaylee." My voice sounds like someone stepped on it.
She walks out. The door doesn't slam, but it closes with a finality that's worse.
I stand there for a while after that.