That's the only word for it. The rideshare dropped me at my apartment and I practically danced up the stairs, heels in one hand, phone in the other, grinning like a fool. My reflection in the hallway mirror looked wrecked—mascara smudged, hair a disaster, dress twisted sideways—and I couldn’t have cared less.
Because I looked like a woman who just had a very,veryhot night with a very,verysexy man, and I wasn’t even a little sorry about it.
I showered and crawled into bed knowing he’d call, and then I fell asleep smiling.
Now, I’m making coffee. Checking my phone.
Doing laundry. Checking my phone.
Taking a walk. Checking my phone.
I'm not obsessive about it, really. I'm just...aware of it. Casually. The way you're casually aware of a fire alarm going off.
By noon, the glow has faded to something more in the realm of a low hum. By three, the hum has a question mark at the end of it. By six, I've cycled through every possible explanation: he lost my number, his phone died, he got hit by a car, he's in the hospital, he's shy, he's playing it cool, he's building suspense.
By nine, I'm sitting on my couch with a glass of wine, and the explanations have stopped being creative.
He's not calling. He was never going to call.
The window's cracked open and I can hear crickets, the distant hush of the creek behind the building, and someone's dog barking a few streets over. It’s a perfectly nice summer night. And all I can think about is the county fair and the deep-fried butter and the firewood story that I rattled on about. I told him things and he laughed, and I thought it meant something, and it didn't.
This is the part I hate most. Not the rejection—I can handle rejection. It's the hope that came before it. The stupid, reckless,this one’s differenthope that I should have known better than to feel, because I've been here before.
Another almost. Another guy who was fun but not serious. Not aboutme, anyway.
I finish my wine, wash the glass, and go to bed early. Tomorrow's Monday. I have work. And Tom can go to hell for all I care.
The next morning…I'm fine.
I'm fine when my alarm goes off at seven. Fine when I brush my teeth and pull my hair into a ponytail and put on my camp-branded polo. Fine when I grab my travel mug and lock the door and drive the twelve minutes to Timber Run with the radio up loud enough to drown out any lingering thoughts about the blue-gray eyes of a certain ruggedly handsome liar.
Who is dead to me, by the way.
In case that wasn't clear.
The camp is beautiful at seven-thirty in the morning. Mist still sits low in the trees, the air already warm and sweet with wood-shavings and wildflowers, the mountains catching the early light and glowing from the inside.
I park in the staff lot and take a breath.
This is my place. These are my people.
No man who has issues using a phone is going to ruin that.
The dining hall is mostly empty this early—just me and the coffee machine and the faint smell of whatever the kitchen's prepping for later. I pour myself a mug, sit at the staff table, and let the quiet settle around me.
This is my favorite part of the morning, before the guests are up and the madness kicks in. Just the camp and the mountains and a few minutes to pretend I have my life together.
Teagan breezes through on her way to the office, juggling a stack of folders on her hip. "Kaylee, heads up—Connor's introducing the new crew hire this morning. Staff meeting at eight-thirty at the fire pit. Make sure everyone's there?"
"On it." I pull out my phone and start texting the guys.
New hire, right. Connor mentioned he recruited someone for a permanent position. Skills instructor or something. I didn't pay much attention to the details due to being exhausted from a long week. Since Imogen and all the others were busy, I decided to go to the bar myself on Saturday night. I thought I could blow off some steam.
Bigmistake.
Nope, not going to think about it anymore.
"Hey, Teagan?" She pauses in the doorway. "Anyone know anything about the new guy?"