2. Kaylee
KAYLEE
Sunday morning, I check my phone before my eyes are fully open.
No missed calls. No texts.
That's fine. It's early. Tom's probably still asleep. Probably hungover. Probably composing the perfect first text in his head.
Last night, I floated home.
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, very hot night with a very, very sexy 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 different hope 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 about me, 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.
Big mistake.
Nope, not going to think about it anymore.
"Hey, Teagan?" She pauses in the doorway. "Anyone know anything about the new guy?"
"Not much. Connor's been weirdly private about it." She shifts the folders higher on her hip. "Just that he's experienced and 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, I know those 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 grins and 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.
Good. Squirm, you jerk.
I take his hand since everyone is watching and I'm not about to make a scene. His palm is warm and rough and familiar in a way that makes my insides stir. Jesus.
"Welcome to Timber Run." My voice is flawless…polite. If pretense was an Olympic sport, I'd be on the podium. "Let me know if you need anything to get settled in."
I release his hand, turn back to my clipboard, and make a note I don't need to make.
This is mature, Kaylee. Very mature.
I’m definitely not dying inside.
Not one bit.
The rest of the morning is a masterclass in avoidance.
I have plenty to do—guest check-ins don't manage themselves, and we've got a group of twelve arriving Wednesday for a corporate team-building package that requires coordinating cabins, meal plans, and activity schedules.
I bury myself in it. Spreadsheets. Confirmation emails. Cabin assignments. Normal, manageable, doesn't-make-me-want-to-throw-up work.
But Timber Run is not a terribly large place. And Dean Archer is not a small man.
I see him through the registration cabin window, following Connor on a tour of the grounds.
I see him at the equipment shed, nodding while Graham probably explains something about axe maintenance.
I see him at the sawing station with Ewan, and walking down to the log-rolling pond with Rourke, and crossing the path between the dining hall and the cabins, and every single time, my body reacts before my brain can stop it.
Heat. Then fury. Then heat again, which makes the fury even worse.