"Not much. Connor's been weirdly private about it." She shifts the folders higher on her hip. "Just that he's experiencedand Connor vouches for him. You know how he gets when he believes in someone."
I do know. It's one of the things I respect most about Connor. He doesn't hire people he isn't willing to go to bat for.
"Probably another giant bearded man who looks like he could bench-press a sedan," I say.
Teagan grins. “We do have a type, don’t we?” She disappears into the office, and I finish my coffee alone.
At eight-twenty-five, I'm at the fire pit with my clipboard, doing a mental headcount. Graham's leaning against a post with his arms crossed next to Ewan, looking as if he'd rather be anywhere else, which is his default state. Ewan's telling some story to Brady that involves a lot of hand gestures and I can hear his Scottish accent, thick enough to spread on toast, all the way over here. Rourke's strumming his guitar softly, not really playing anything, just keeping his hands busy.
Sky's perched on one of the log benches, phone out, probably already planning content. Teagan's by the main office, checking things off of a list on a tablet in front of her.
This is my family. I found these people, or they found me, and I love them in a way that still surprises me sometimes. Two years ago I didn't know a single person in Deepwood. Now I can't imagine my life anywhere else.
Connor comes around the corner of the office building, and he's not alone.
No.
No.
My stomach drops so fast I swear it hits the ground.
The man walking next to him is tall, broad-shouldered with dark hair that's a few weeks past needing a cut. He's wearing a flannel shirt and his hands…
For god’s sake, Iknowthose hands. I know that walk. I know exactly what that stubble on his face feels like against my neck.
He looks up, scanning the group the way someone does when they're casually taking it in, and his eyes find mine.
And stop.
For one horrible, electric second, we just stare at each other. Shock hits first, then he moves into something I'd call panic.
Tom.
"Everyone, this is Dean Archer," Connor says, clapping him on the shoulder. "He's joining us as our newest crew member. Dean's got extensive experience in the logging business—over fifteen years in the field—and he'll be working across all of our demonstration programs while he settles in. I want everyone to make him feel welcome."
Dean.His name is Dean.
Not Tom. He’s not the rugged, dependable, tire-changing stranger I invented in my head. He’s a lying bastard who ravaged me in his truck, promised to call, and then didn't.
The universe sure has a sick sense of humor.
Blood roars in my ears. Everything inside me screams to react, to march over there and slap that stunned look off his face, to demand to know what kind of man screws a woman, gives her a fake name…and then shows up at her job invading the safety of her world.
But I don't do any of that. Because I'm at work, and I'm a professional.
I force my face into the expression I use for difficult guests—pleasant, neutral, and absolutely dead behind the eyes.
I straighten my spine. My chin lifts. And something cold and smooth slides into place over my chest, like armor clicking shut.
The guys in the crew are doing the handshake-and-nod thing. Graham gives him an appraising look. Ewan says something welcoming with too many rolled R's. Rourke grinsand says, "About time Connor brought in fresh blood." Brady offers a quiet nod.
Then Connor turns toward me.
"And this is Kaylee Easton, our Guest Registration Coordinator. Kaylee's been with us for a while now—she's the first face most people see when they arrive at Timber Run, and she keeps the whole front end running. Anything you need logistically, she's your person."
Dean hesitates for a moment, then extends his hand.
"Nice to meet you." His voice is carefully even, but I can hear the strain underneath. His jaw is tight and he won't fully meet my eyes.