Chapter 4 #2
I remember reading somewhere that people who go off the grid don’t disappear. They just find new ways to hide in plain sight.
Is that what I’m doing here? Am I using my rehab as an excuse to avoid starting over?
A flash of movement breaks my train of thought.
Up ahead, past the first bend, someone sits on a fallen log, back to me.
A hard-sided lunch cooler rests open at her feet.
She tears into a sandwich with both hands, no hesitation, her attention on the water as if waiting for something to emerge from the waves.
I recognize her from the build site. She was there the day I watched the crew haul in the pallets of kitchen cabinets, barking orders at a team of sweaty crewmembers.
She carried herself like someone who’d never second-guessed a decision in her life, her work shirt rolled to the elbows to reveal a patchwork of scars and old burns.
She doesn’t strike me as the type to want company, so I start to turn around. But my knee throbs, and it will hurt more to backtrack, so I settle for sneaking past.
No such luck.
Her head lifts, sandwich poised midair. “Afternoon.”
“G-good afternoon,” I manage, tripping over the “g” despite my best effort.
When she goes back to her sandwich, relief sweeps through me, and I keep walking. My cane sinks into a soft patch of dirt, and I curse myself for not watching the ground.
Then, as I step past, my foot snags on a root. I lurch forward, the world tilting, and brace for the pain of landing.
It never comes.
A hand clamps around my forearm, and I’m hauled upright before I can catch a breath. The air whooshes out of my chest, and suddenly I’m staring at the woman from the log.
Staring up, since she’s taller than me by an inch, maybe two. She’s stronger, too, based on the ease with which she caught me. I’ve never met a woman who outmatched me in either, and the realization knocks me as off balance as the fall itself.
“You okay?” she asks, her hand moving from my arm to my elbow to steady me.
“S-sorry.” My brain rushes to fill the silence. “I w-wasn’t watching where I was going.”
Her palm settles over the hand gripping my cane, ensuring that I’ve got a solid hold. “Next stretch is all roots. If you want to get through in one piece, hug the left side.”
I can’t stop staring at the size of her hand compared to my arm. It’s not that I’m small. I’m six-one, with the frame of someone who played soccer until university. But next to her, I feel… delicate? No, that’s not it. Lightweight, maybe? Like she’s made of steel, and I’m tinfoil.
A strangled sound escapes me that’s supposed to be “thanks,” but catches in my throat.
Eyes the same color as the driftwood stacked along the shore study me. “You’re Chloe’s friend, yeah?”
I blink up at her. “How did you…”
“Seen you around the island.” Her hand, still on mine, gives a little squeeze before she releases me, and I feel less stable without her touch. “I’m Emily. I’m the superintendent for the resort project.”
She sticks out her hand, the same one that just saved me from a face full of moss.
I shake it, feeling her calluses scrape my palm. “Grady.” My tongue stumbles, the “d” catching, but she doesn’t react.
She lets go and sits back down on the log, sandwich balanced on her knee. “Take a break, if you want. Path is muddy up ahead.”
I limp over to lower myself onto the far end of the log. The cane goes across my lap, and I work my fingers over the handle to get the blood flowing again.
“Nice day.” Emily lifts her face to the sun peeking through the clouds.
“It is,” I say, though my heart still races. “Sorry for interrupting your lunch.”
She shrugs. “You didn’t. Always better to eat with company.”
I risk a peek at her profile. She’s older than me, in her early-thirties, but there’s nothing soft about her. Her silver hair is pulled back into a short braid, leaving her high cheekbones and full lips on display.
She takes another bite of her sandwich, chews, swallows, and points at the cooler with her elbow. “Want a sandwich?”
“Oh, no, I can’t take your lunch.” My stomach chooses that moment to betray me with a rumble loud enough to draw a laugh from her.
She reaches into the cooler and pulls out a second sandwich the same size as the one she holds in her other hand.
I take it, peeling back wax paper to reveal thick slices of bacon, lettuce, and tomato on a crusty whole-grain bread.
I take a bite, and it’s the best thing I’ve eaten since I arrived. “Where did you buy this bread?”
She swallows and wipes her mouth with a handkerchief. “Baked it last night.”
“It’s incredible,” I say. “When do you find the time? You’re always working.”
She smiles, and the effect is disarming. “I’m an early riser, and I slow ferment in the fridge.”
“I don’t know what that means,” I admit.
She cocks her head. “Do you want to?”
“Is it weird I’ve never questioned how bread is made?”
She shakes her head. “Not at all. Baking bread isn’t for everyone.”
“What does cold fermentation mean?” I ask, wanting to keep her talking.
I take another slow bite, chewing as Emily talks while she eats, explaining how using the refrigerator slows the rising process, her hands sketching shapes in the air as if sculpting dough.
I only catch half the words, caught up in the rhythm of her storytelling. Her fingers move with the same confidence she had hauling me upright a few minutes ago, and I realize I’m more interested in the way she gestures than in the science of bread baking.
By the time she finishes, I clear my throat and admit, “You lost me at the gluten content of different flours.”
Her mouth quirks. “That’s fine. Eating it is better than discussing it.”
I take another bite, letting the crust crackle under my teeth. “This bread really is incredible. You could open a bakery.”
She shrugs, but a hint of pride warms her gray eyes. “I enjoy feeding people. Don’t need it to turn into a business.”
“But you’re so good.”
“Don’t need to earn money from everything I’m good at,” she says gently. “The moment you turn what you love into income, you lose a hobby and gain another job.”
I huff a little laugh, though it comes out more tired than amused.
“That’s… not how my brain works. If I do something well, my first instinct is to figure out how to sell it.
Pay the rent, prove it matters.” I stare at the sandwich in my hands for a moment.
“Guess that’s why I’m in my current pickle. ”
A beat of silence follows where I wait for her to ask what pickle I’m in, and she waits for me to talk more without it being dragged out of me.
After a while, she asks, “How did you become friends with Chloe?”
“We met in university. She took a creative writing class I was a teaching assistant for.” I smile at the memory. “I brokered her first book deal.”
Emily tips her head, the silver in her hair catching the weak sunlight. “I read her first book. Didn’t see myself in it, but it was a fun adventure story.”
“She always liked epic adventures,” I say. “At least, she used to.”
“And now?”
“She’s focusing on lighter works,” I admit, “which is monster porn, these days.”
Emily barks a laugh. “Good for her. Mayhap I’ll pick up her new work.” She gives me a wink. “Might give me some inspiration.”
Blood rushes to my cheeks, and I turn away, flustered. Is she flirting? But she’s an Alpha. Alphas don’t flirt with Betas.
I finish the sandwich, brush the crumbs from my hands, and think about heading back. Still, I stay, hoping Emily might speak again.
She doesn’t, not for a while, but I catch her studying my leg.
“You were in that accident at Phase Two, right?” she asks at last.
“Yeah.” I straighten. “Which wasn’t your construction crew’s fault.”
“Didn’t say it was. There were plenty of signs warning people not to go into the site.” She gives me a once-over. “You’ll gain your strength back.”
“Perhaps,” I say, not so sure as the months drag on with little improvement.
She squints off into the distance, then stands and stretches, revealing a band of bare, toned stomach. “Lunch is over. I better head back to work.”
Disappointment shoots through me. “It was nice talking to you.”
“It was a pleasure sharing a meal.” She pops the lid off a battered blue thermos and hands it over. “Soup. Take it.”
Before I can protest, she packs up the cooler, and I get the sense that refusing would be a personal affront.
“Thank you.” I breathe in the steam, and my mouth waters. “Is this homemade, too?”
“Sure is.” She shoulders the cooler. “This is my favorite lunch spot, if you ever have the urge to pass this way again.”
Without waiting for a response, she heads back up the trail.
I turn, keeping her in sight until she slips from view.
Turning back toward the water, I pour myself a cup. The soup is chunky, heavy with beans and shreds of beef, the broth carrying the depth of an all-day simmer. I drink it in slow sips, letting the heat warm my stomach despite the heat of the day.
When the thermos is empty, I stare at the container, realizing I’ll have to seek her out again to return it.
Did she plan it that way? Or was she just being kind?
Part of me thinks it was a little bit of both, and I’m not sure what to do with that.
Alphas don’t flirt with Betas, after all.
Right?