Chapter 5 Maya
MAYA
There was something meditative about manual labour.
The repetitive motion of the hole digger, the burn in my shoulders, the satisfying crunch of metal breaking through packed earth. Out here, with nothing but the rush of the waterfall and the occasional bird call, my brain was quiet.
But during daylight hours? I was the picture of a well-adjusted adult woman entirely focused on her job, completely immune to her brother’s stupidly hot best friend.
The waterfall roared behind me, drowning out everything except my own thoughts, until heavy boots crunched on the track behind me.
I glanced over my shoulder, expecting a hiker. Maybe a couple looking for a good photo spot, or a solo trekker wanting directions. What I got was six-foot-three of brooding ex-soldier, hands shoved in his pockets, watching me like he wasn’t sure if he should stay or bolt.
Nate.
Of course it was Nate.
I fumbled the digger, nearly dropping it on my foot.
“Hey.” He stopped a few feet away, but close enough for me to catch his scent. Oh good lord. My pulse leapt and heat pooled in my belly.
“Hi.” I straightened, brushing dirt off my gloves. “Didn’t expect to see you out here.” At least my voice didn’t squeak.
“Yeah, I was just...” He trailed off, gesturing vaguely at the trail behind him. “Walking.”
“Walking.”
“Needed to clear my head.”
I waited for more. Nothing came. Up close, tension locked his shoulders tight, and dark shadows bruised the skin under his eyes. He looked tired. A deep, soul-weary exhaustion clung to him. Like he carried a crushing weight and his knees were finally buckling.
“Well.” I turned back to my work, jamming the digger into the next marked spot. “Don’t let me stop you.”
He shifted behind me but didn’t leave. I kept my focus on the dig, the twist, the lift. Dirt piled up beside the hole. My shoulders burned.
“You mad at me, Slayer?”
The nickname hit me square in the chest. I stilled, hands tightening on the digger handles.
“No.”
“You sure?”
“I’m not mad.” I yanked the digger free and moved to the next marker. “I’m working.”
Another pause. His intense gaze burned a hole right through my back.
“Mind if I sit for a bit?”
What I wanted to say was: Yes, I mind. Please leave so I can go back to pretending you don’t exist.
What I actually said was: “Suit yourself.”
He moved past me, settling on a rocky outcrop near the edge of the falls. I kept my eyes on the ground, on my work, on anything except him sitting there with his forearms braced on his knees, staring out at the water. Okay sure, I did flick him a few glances, but that was all. Promise.
The digger bit into the earth. Crunch. Twist. Lift.
“Do you remember how we used to jump off from here?”
“Yeah.” Funny, the mere thought of making that jump now terrified me.
“And that time Jensen misjudged the distance?” His voice was quiet, almost lost under the rush of water.
I paused mid-dig. “Uh huh.”
“Bashed his ankle on the rocks. We all thought he was messing around at first.”
“Yeah.” The memory surfaced instantly. Jensen floating in the water, laughing it off, until his face drained of color and panic set in.
“You were the first one to realize something was actually wrong. Took charge, got us all organized, knew exactly where to take him.”
“Fogarty’s Hut.”
“Thirteen years old and confident as hell.” There was a tinge of admiration to his tone.
“Are you kidding? I was shitting myself.”
“Well, you could have fooled me.”
Our eyes met. For a split second, time unspooled, taking us right back to the days before everything got so tangled up. A sudden ache hit me, forcing me to turn back to the trail markers.
“Shouldn’t you be heading back? Mom’s probably got dinner plans.”
He exhaled, almost a laugh. “She’s already warned me. Pot roast.”
“Her pot roast is something else.”
“I remember.” Wow, would you look at that? He was hovering right on the edge of a genuine smile. The tension in his face had eased, just a little.
It suited him. Made him look more like the boy I used to know.
“Well.” I cleared my throat. “These holes aren’t going to dig themselves.”
The obvious hint hung in the air. He ignored it completely, standing up and closing the distance between us until he stopped a few feet away.
“Can I have a go?”
I blinked. “What?”
“The digger.” He nodded at it. “Can I try?”
“You want to dig holes?”
“I want to do something useful.” He shrugged. “And I’m going a little stir-crazy at your parents’ place.”
That, I understood. Mom’s hospitality was legendary, but it did come with a side of constant hovering.
“Sure, okay.” I handed over the digger, our fingers brushing as he took it.
The touch sent a jolt straight through me, heat rushing up my arm and settling behind my ribs.
He was close. Too close. His eyes locked on mine, his scent washing over me, clean sweat and something woodsy underneath.
My brain short-circuited for a second. I cleared my throat, forcing my gaze to the dirt.
“You see the markers? Holes need to be about eight inches deep.” Damn my squeaky voice.
He nodded, positioning the digger over the nearest flag. His first attempt was awkward, the angle wrong, but he adjusted quickly. By the third dig, he’d found a rhythm.
I tried to look at the trees or the waterfall, even my boots. But my eyes stubbornly tracked the way his shirt pulled tight across his broad shoulders with every downward thrust. He shifted his weight effortlessly, a deep frown of concentration on his brow.
Ahem.
I grabbed my water bottle from my pack and took a long swig, then pulled out the trail map I’d been marking up earlier. There was plenty of work to keep me busy. Signage notes, erosion spots to flag, a fallen branch blocking part of the lower track that I’d been meaning to log.
I settled onto a flat rock a few feet away, map spread across my knees, very deliberately not watching Nate dig holes.
The crunch of metal into earth settled into a steady rhythm. Almost meditative, if I didn’t think too hard about who was making the sound.
I uncapped my pen and started marking up the map.