Chapter 9 Real Life
REAL LIFE
ELAINE
The resort felt different when I walked through it the next morning.
Same cabins. Same trails. Same clipboard with the same endless list of pre-season tasks.
But I kept thinking about Jack's hands. The way his cabin had smelled like wood smoke and coffee. How natural it had felt to wake up in his bed.
I was in trouble.
I'd made it through two cabin inspections and was halfway through updating the maintenance log when I heard the ATV engine.
My stomach flipped.
I told myself I wasn't going to drop everything and go find him.
I dropped everything and went to find him.
He was at the main storage shed, unloading split wood from the cargo rack with the same methodical efficiency he brought to everything else. Flannel shirt, work gloves, that beard that had felt surprisingly soft against my,
Focus, Elaine.
"Morning," I called.
He looked up, and something in his expression shifted when he saw me. Warmer. Almost smiled.
"Morning," he said. "How's the list?"
"Endless. You?"
"Same." He set down another armload of wood, then straightened. "Sleep okay?"
"Eventually."
"What does that mean?"
"It means your bed is more comfortable than mine."
"You could've stayed."
"I had work."
"So did I." He pulled off his gloves, tucking them into his back pocket. "I still wanted you to stay."
My heart did something complicated.
"Jack..."
"I know. Real life. Responsibilities." He moved closer, voice dropping. "Doesn't mean I didn't want it."
I was trying to formulate a response that wasn't just take me back to your cabin right now when another vehicle pulled up, a white SAR truck with the familiar logo on the side.
Jack's posture shifted slightly. Not tense, exactly. Just aware.
A woman climbed out, older, maybe late fifties, with short gray hair and the kind of face that had seen everything twice. She spotted Jack and grinned.
"Myers!"
"Pat," Jack said. Not quite a greeting. More like an acknowledgment.
"Don't 'Pat' me. You pulled someone out of the river and didn’t call it in until after she was already warming up." She turned to me. "You must be Elaine."
"That's me."
"You doing okay? No delayed symptoms? Shakes, confusion, desire to sue the resort for inadequate dock maintenance?"
I laughed despite myself. "I'm fine. Really."
"Good. Because paperwork is a nightmare when civilians go hypothermic." She looked back at Jack. "You did good."
"It wasn't complicated."
"It never is when you know what you're doing." She crossed her arms, studying him. "You know, we're running a civilian response training next month. “Basic wilderness first aid and rope systems. You’d be a good assistant instructor."
"I'm not interested."
"You say that every time."
"Still mean it."
Pat sighed. "Jack. You've got the skills. You've got the judgment. You live on the mountain full-time. Why not make it official?"
"Because I like being a civilian."
"Civilians don't carry rescue-grade rope in their ATV."
"Civilians who live alone in the woods do."
She looked at me, eyebrows raised. "Is he always this stubborn?"
"I've only known him two days," I said. "But yes."
Jack shot me a look that was almost amused.
Pat shook her head. "Well. If you change your mind, you know where to find us." She pulled out a business card and handed it to him anyway. "Training's the third weekend of April. No pressure. But think about it."
"I will."
"Liar." She climbed back into her truck, then paused. "Oh, and Jack? Good to see you talking to people again. Was starting to worry you'd forgotten how."
She drove off before he could respond.
Jack stood there for a moment, staring at the card in his hand, then shoved it into his pocket.
"She seems nice," I offered.
"She's persistent."
"Is that why you don't want to train with them?"
"Part of it."
"What's the other part?"
He was quiet for a beat, then started stacking wood again. I waited, watching him work.
"I spent a long time being the guy people came to when they needed something fixed," he said finally. "Advice, resources, connections. It didn't matter what it was, if I could solve it, they expected me to."
"And you got tired of solving things."
"I got tired of being needed for the wrong reasons." He set down another armload. "SAR is different. They need people for the right reasons. But once you're in, you're in. There's an expectation. A belonging."
"And you don't want to belong."
"I didn't." He glanced at me. "Now I'm not sure."
Oh.
That felt significant.
"What changed?" I asked quietly.
"You know what changed."
"Say it anyway."
He stopped working, turned to face me fully. "You. You changed it."
"I fell in the river and disrupted your entire routine."
"You did." He took a step closer. "And I don't want to go back to how it was before."
"Quiet and solitary and perfectly controlled?"
"Lonely," he corrected. "I didn't realize it until you left yesterday, but that's what it was. Lonely."
My throat tightened. "Jack..."
"I'm not asking you to fix that. I just need you to know..." He paused, searching for words. "I want more than occasional deliveries and polite waves across the property."
"What do you want?"
"You. At the cabin. In my bed. Drinking coffee in the morning and arguing with me about whether I'm too practical." He huffed a quiet breath. "I want you to stay over and leave your things there and come back when you feel like it."
"That's a lot more than firewood deliveries."
"I know."
"What if it gets complicated?"
"It's already complicated. You work here. I’m your boss."
"True."
"I don't care." His eyes held mine. "Do you?"
I thought about it. Really thought about it.
Two days ago, I'd been perfectly content with my quiet off-season routine. Clipboard and inspections and the kind of solitude that didn't demand anything.
Now I was standing in front of a man who'd pulled me from a river and made me want things I hadn't realized I was missing.
"No," I said. "I don't care."
"Then what do you want, Elaine?"
"I want to stop pretending this is casual.
I want to show up at your cabin after work and not feel like I'm imposing.
I want you to kiss me goodbye when I leave instead of just watching me walk away.
" I took a breath. "And I want to stop worrying that you're going to wake up one day and decide solitude was better. "
"I won't."
"How do you know?"
"Because I've had three years of solitude, and one day with you made it feel empty." He closed the distance between us, hands finding my waist. "That's how I know."
I wanted to kiss him. Wanted to pull him close and forget we were standing in the middle of the resort where anyone could see.
Instead, I just leaned into him, forehead against his chest, breathing him in.
"This is going to be weird," I said.
"Probably."
"People are going to talk."
"Let them."
"The management company might have opinions."
"They work for me. I'll handle it."
I pulled back enough to look up at him. "You're really okay with this? All of it?"
"I'm better than okay." His thumb traced small circles against my hip. "I'm in."
I kissed him then, quick and certain, because some things didn't need more talking.
When I pulled back, he looked steadier. More settled.
"I should finish this delivery," he said.
"And I should finish my inspections."
"Dinner tonight?"
"Your place or mine?"
"Mine. I'll cook."
"Deal."
He kissed me once more, slower this time, deliberate, then stepped back and returned to the woodpile.
I watched him for another moment, then forced myself to walk away.
But this time, when I glanced back, he was watching me too.
And he was smiling.