The muscles cord under sun-browned skin as he resets his grip, and there's a sheen of sweat on the back of his neck. His hair is pushed back from his forehead and curling at the ends from the humidity, and I’m standing on a trail in the woods watching this man as if I'm in some kind of lumberjack calendar fever dream.
I need to get a grip immediately.
I clear my throat…loudly.
He turns, maul still in hand, breathing hard. His eyes find me in surprise, then they shift to that careful detachment he puts on whenever I'm near, as if he's pressing himself flat to hide.
"Connor wanted me to give you this waiver update before you head over to the next demo." I hold up the clipboard, all business. My voice doesn't waver. Kaylee Easton, professional to the bone.
"Sure." He sets the maul against the block and walks toward me, pulling the hem of his shirt up to wipe the sweat off his face, and I get a full view of his stomach—hard, ridged, with a trail of dark hair that disappears below his waistband—and my own stomach clenches as I wrench my eyes back to the clipboard.
He takes it from my hand, and I make sure our fingers don't touch.
He reads through it. Then slides the pen out from the top to sign and date it, then hands it back. "You don't have to keep doing this."
I go still. "Doing what?"
"Pretending you're fine."
Howdarehe! Standing here dripping sweat and smelling of cedar and telling me what I'm feeling.
"Iamfine," I reply, and my voice could cut glass.
He holds my gaze with those blue-gray eyes. "Kaylee."
The way he says my name, low andachy,makes my stomach flip, and I hate him for it. I hate that my body hasn't gotten the memo that we're done here. "Is there anything else you need, or can I get back to work?"
A muscle jumps in his jaw, and he nods once. "Nothing else."
I turn and walk back down the trail, and I don't run, since running would mean he got to me, and he didn't.
He absolutely didn't.
Heritage Night is always my favorite part of the week.
The fire pit is glowing, Ewan's in his kilt playing something on his fiddle that makes the whole forest feel as if it's leaning in to listen, and Rourke's singing along in that warm tenor of his—some old Irish ballad.
The guests are scattered on the log benches, wrapped in blankets, faces lit by the firelight. Jamie's asleep in Teagan's lap. Graham and Sky are sharing a bench, her head on his shoulder.
It's magic. This is the thing I fell in love with when I came to Timber Run…this feeling, right here. Community. Warmth. Belonging.
I'm sitting with Imogen on some camp chairs, mugs of hot cider in our hands. She's telling me about a client at the spa who cried during a deep tissue session and then tipped forty percent, which is apparently a regular occurrence in her line of work.
I'm laughing. I'm present. I'm fine.
And then I feel it.
That prickle on the back of my neck. The feeling that someone's watching me, and I know exactly who it is without looking, because my body has apparently developed a sixth sense specifically calibrated to Dean Archer's attention, which is both mortifying and infuriating.
He's across the fire. I can see him in my peripheral vision—leaning against one of the log posts at the edge of the circle, face half in shadow. He's not trying to hide it. He's just...looking. The way he looked at me at the bar. Like I'm…his.
I take a sip of cider and say something to Imogen about the crying client.
Imogen glances past my shoulder, then back at me. Her eyebrow ticks up by a fraction.
"Don't say it,” I say.
"I didn't say anything."