2. Kaylee #2
He catches my eye once, across the yard, and there's something there…guilt, maybe, or regret, or some other emotion I refuse to interpret because assuming I know what he’s thinking and feeling is what got me into this mess in the first place.
I look away first…make him watch me not look at him.
At lunch, Imogen shows up from Serenity Springs spa the way she does most days—breezing into the dining hall with her pink hair clipped back, a butterfly clip holding it off her face, and full of energy.
She’s probably already worked out multiple people's shoulder knots before noon.
She drops into the chair across from me at the staff table and steals a carrot stick off my plate.
"So," she says. "Brady texted me that there's a new guy. And that you're being weird about it."
What? How could he tell? "I'm not being weird about anything."
"Kaylee, you're eating carrots. You hate carrots."
I look down at my plate. I do hate carrots. But I wanted something I could bite down on hard, that would give me a satisfying crunch. "They came with the sandwich."
"Uh-huh." She glances toward the window where Dean is visible outside, hauling something heavy for Graham. "That him?"
"Yes."
"Okay, he's mega hot. Is that the problem?"
My heart slams. "What? No. There's no problem. Why would there be a problem?"
She studies me. I can feel her reading my body language the way she reads tension in people's shoulders, and I hate that I'm transparent enough for others to notice. I guess my face can be an open book to the right people, and right now the book is titled "Everything Sucks: A Memoir."
"I'm fine, Imogen. Really." I soften my voice. She doesn't deserve the sharp edge for trying to be a good friend. "Just didn't sleep well this weekend."
She doesn't believe me, I can tell. But she nods, squeezes my arm, and lets it go. "I'm here when you want to talk about whatever you're not talking about."
The afternoon is worse.
Connor asks me to walk Dean through the guest registration process since he'll occasionally need to check activity rosters and sign-in sheets. Which means I have to stand next to him at my desk and explain my filing system while pretending my pulse isn't going bananas.
He smells the same. That's the cruelest part. Whatever soap or detergent or just fundamental essence of him I buried my face in Saturday night—it's right there, inches away, and my stupid body responds to it like a Pavlovian bell.
Don't look at his hands. Dammit, you looked at his hands.
"So this is the daily roster," I say, pointing at the screen. My voice is perfectly steady. "Guests check in here, and activity assignments are logged by time slot. If you need to pull someone's schedule, you search by cabin number or last name."
"Got it." He's standing too close. Or maybe he's standing a normal distance and I'm just hyper-aware of every inch of air between us. His voice is low and careful, as if he's handling something fragile. "And the…safety waivers?"
"Filed digitally and in hard copy. I can email you the link to the shared drive." I click to a new screen. I'm not looking at him. I'm looking at the monitor. "Anything else?"
A pause. I can feel him looking at the side of my face.
"Kaylee—"
"That's the full overview." I finally turn and give him my best registration-desk smile. "Connor can fill you in on anything I've missed. I've got check-ins to prep for."
Something moves behind his eyes. His jaw ticks in that way I remember from Saturday, the way it looked right before he kissed me for the first time, right before he said—
Stop it.
"Thank you," he says quietly. "For the walkthrough."
"It's my job."
He nods and stands there for one more second like he's deciding whether or not to say something else. Then he turns and walks out of the cabin, and I let out a breath.
My hands are shaking. I press them flat on the desk and stare at them until they stop.
By the end of the day, more of the crew has noticed my behavior.
They're not subtle about it, either. Rourke asks me twice if I'm feeling all right, because apparently my face has been "doing a thing" all day.
Ewan mentions casually that the new lad seems decent, and watches me as if he's waiting for a reaction.
Even Graham, who usually couldn't care less about interpersonal dynamics, gives me a long look when I snap at him for leaving his equipment sign-out form blank again.
"I always leave it blank," he says.
"And I always ask you to fill it out, and today I'm not asking, I'm telling. Fill out the damn form, Graham!”
He blinks. Then he fills out the form without another word.
I'm being awful. I know I'm being awful.
They don't deserve my bad mood, and the worst part is I can't explain it.
I can't say, "Hey, that new guy you're all being much too pleasant to?
I had sex with him on Saturday night. In his truck.
He told me his name was Tom. He promised to call me and he didn't, and now he works here, and every time I see his face I want to either cry or commit a felony. "
I mean, I could say that. But then Teagan would know.
And if Teagan knows, Connor knows. And Connor hired him, and Connor's judgment is something I respect more than almost anything, and I don't want to be the reason anyone questions that.
I don't want to be drama. I just want to do my job and go home and yell into a pillow.
So I smile at the guests and file the paperwork and answer the phones and pretend that everything is normal.
And when I catch Dean watching me from across the fire pit as the crew wraps up for the day—those blue-gray eyes tracking me—I don't acknowledge it.
Let him look.
Let him feel whatever he's feeling.
It's not my problem anymore.
Except...the way he looked at me this morning and the way he said my name in the registration cabin—quietly and carefully, like maybe he wanted to say something to make me feel better—that didn’t go unnoticed.
The way he held you, how he said your name like you he’d never forget you…
I shut that thought down so fast and hard I hurt myself.
He lied. He used a fake name. He didn't call. Those are the facts.
Everything else…how his hands trembled on my skin, the way he gazed at me as if what we did was more than a late-night hook-up…that's just what I wanted to see.
I built him up in my head the way I always do, turning a stranger into a story.
But this story was fiction.
I'm done building men up into more than they really are.
I drive home with the windows down, warm evening air rushing through the cab. I need the noise. I need something louder than the ache sitting inside my chest.
Inside my apartment, I drop my bag, and stand in my kitchen. It’s stuffy from being closed up all day, so I crank open the window over the sink.
It’s the same quiet summer night, except now it sounds different. Emptier.
I stare at the counter where I set my keys and think about Saturday…how I stood in this exact spot, barefoot and grinning, replaying every word he said.
And how positive I was that he'd call.
My phone buzzes. It's Imogen.
Wine tomorrow night? My place? No pressure, but also…a little pressure.
K. We’ll need the big glasses.
You got it, babe.
Then I pour myself some water, because alcohol on a Monday would be admitting defeat, and I refuse to let Dean Archer drive me to solo weeknight drinking.
Dean Archer. Not Tom.
Even his real name sounds like someone from a movie—a character a woman falls for right before he breaks her heart, and the audience saw it coming before she did.
I pull my ponytail out and let my hair down, then look at myself in the bathroom mirror. I’m the same girl who keeps opening her heart for men who are just passing through.
But not this time.
This time, the heart closes back up.
He can show up to work every day. He can be polite, helpful, and whatever Connor needs him to be.
He can be the best damn crew member Timber Run has ever seen.
I don't care. Because the woman he met at that bar, the one who laughed and shared too much and had amazing sex with a stranger in the backseat of a truck thinking the universe was finally being kind to her?
She's gone.
Dean gets the no-nonsense ice queen now. He gets the Kaylee who is pleasant, but absolutely unreachable, and if that kills him even half as much as his silence killed me, then good.
Good.
I wash my face, brush my teeth, and get into bed.
I can do this. I'm good at pretending things don't bother me. It's literally in my job description.
But as I lie there in the dark, listening to the crickets through the open window, I can't quite stop my traitorous brain from replaying one specific moment: the look on his face when Connor said my name….how Dean’s entire body went still, as if the ground had shifted under him.
That wasn't the face of a man who didn't care.
And that's the problem.
Because if he doesn't care, I can hate him cleanly and be done with it. But if he does care—if that night meant something to him too—then I’m up shit creek.
I want to be angry. Anger is simple. Anger is safe. Anger doesn't make you check your phone at three in the morning hoping for a call that never comes.
Go to sleep, Kaylee.
I pull the sheet around me tighter.