Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Jules
" T he objective is simple," Jameson Callahan announces to our gathered executive team, his boundless energy practically vibrating in the crisp morning air. "Each pair will follow their designated trail using this map and compass, solving the challenges at each checkpoint. First team to reach the final destination wins bragging rights and a special dinner prepared by our very own Chef Declan."
My gaze drifts to where Declan stands at the edge of the group, looking entirely different from the kitchen chef I've come to know. In hiking boots, cargo pants, and a fitted thermal shirt with the lodge logo, he's the picture of outdoorsy confidence. He catches me looking and grins, raising his water bottle in a small salute.
I quickly turn my attention back to Jameson's instructions.
"Each team will have one Mountain Laurel Lodge staff member for safety and one Sinclair Enterprises executive," Jameson continues. "The staff members know these trails but are instructed to guide only if safety is at risk. This is about your problem-solving skills, not ours."
Andrea sidles up beside me, nudging my arm. "Ten bucks says you get paired with the hot chef."
"Don't be ridiculous," I mutter, though my stomach does a small flip at the thought.
"Team assignments!" Jameson consults his clipboard with exaggerated formality. "Mr. Rothstein with Liam Callahan. Ms. Taylor with Max Callahan. Ms. Rivera with yours truly..."
As Jameson continues reading names, my suspicion grows. When he finally announces, "And Ms. Sinclair with Declan Callahan," Andrea's smugly whispered "Called it" confirms what I already sensed. This pairing is no coincidence.
The teams disperse to collect their equipment. I approach Declan with what I hope is professional detachment.
"Fancy meeting you here," he says, handing me a backpack. "Your trail supplies: water, first aid kit, snacks, rain poncho."
"Rain poncho? The forecast said clear skies."
He glances toward the distant mountains. "Mountain weather changes fast. Better prepared than soaked."
"I thought you were supposed to be a chef, not a meteorologist."
"Mountain living requires multiple skill sets." He offers our map. "Would you like to lead navigation? I hear you're excellent with directions."
"Who told you that?" I ask, accepting the map.
"Mia mentioned you never get lost in New York."
"New York is a grid system," I point out. "These trails are... not that."
"Worried?" His eyes sparkle with challenge.
"Hardly." I study the map, quickly identifying our route marked in red. "Trail 4B. Moderate difficulty, 3.8 miles round trip."
"Impressive map-reading skills."
"Basic literacy," I counter, refusing to acknowledge the compliment. "Where's Mia?"
"Pottery class with Evie and the other kids until noon, then nature art with this afternoon." He shoulders his own pack. "She made me promise to take pictures of any interesting birds we spot."
"Of course she did." The easy rapport he's developed with my daughter still unsettles me.
"Ready to win this thing?" Declan asks.
Despite myself, I feel a competitive smile forming. "Always."
Our trail begins easily enough, a clear path winding through sun-dappled woods. The air smells of pine and earth, cleaner than anything I'm used to in the city. We walk in companionable silence until reaching the first checkpoint, marked by a small wooden box attached to a tree.
"Challenge one," Declan reads from the card inside. "'Using only natural materials found nearby, create a structure that can support this egg one foot above ground for ten seconds.'"
He pulls a raw egg from the box.
"Is your brother always this creative with team-building exercises?" I ask, already scanning the area for suitable materials.
"Jameson lives for this stuff. Last Christmas, he turned family dinner into an escape room experience."
I gather sticks while Declan collects some flat stones and pine needles. We work surprisingly well together, me designing a stable base while he carefully constructs the upper platform. Within ten minutes, we've built a structure that safely cradles the egg.
"Impressive engineering," Declan comments as we snap the required photo proof.
"I built a lot of forts as a kid," I admit, surprising myself with the personal disclosure.
"Jules Sinclair, childhood architect. I can see it."
The next checkpoint challenges us to identify five edible plants. Declan knows them all, of course, but he lets me work through the provided field guide to identify them myself.
"Not bad for a city girl," he says when I correctly distinguish between two similar-looking berries.
"I'm not actually from the city," I find myself saying. "I grew up in a small town in Vermont. Moved to New York after college."
"Vermont, huh? That explains why you can actually walk in those hiking boots. I was half expecting you to show up in heels."
"I do own practical footwear," I say dryly. "Contrary to what you might think, I don't sleep in business suits."
His grin turns mischievous. "What do you sleep in?"
The question catches me off guard, heat rising to my cheeks. "That's hardly appropriate conversation."
"Just making small talk," he says innocently, but his eyes suggest otherwise.
We continue along the trail, successfully completing two more challenges. A riddle that requires finding coordinates on the map and a teamwork exercise involving crossing an imaginary river using stepping stones.
According to the map, the final checkpoint should be just ahead. Our progress has been good—better than I expected—and I find myself actually enjoying the fresh air and physical activity. The competitive part of me is already anticipating victory.
"We should be the first team to finish," I say, checking my watch. "Unless we've been going too slow with these challenges."
"We've made excellent time," Declan assures me. "But the final stretch has a fork in the trail. We need to take the right path."
I consult the map again. "It says to follow Trail 4B to the west junction, then take the northwest path."
"Which would be the right fork," he confirms.
"I know that," I say, perhaps too defensively. "I can read a compass."
"Never suggested otherwise."
We walk for another fifteen minutes before coming to the promised fork. I check the compass, frowning at the reading.
"Something wrong?" Declan asks.
"No," I say quickly. "Just confirming."
The truth is, the compass reading doesn't match what I expected. According to it, the left fork actually heads northwest, not the right one. But the map clearly shows we should continue on Trail 4B, which has been consistently marked on the right paths.
"Left or right?" Declan prompts when I hesitate.
My pride gets the better of me. I've successfully navigated us this far; I don't need his help now.
"Right," I say with more confidence than I feel. "We stay on Trail 4B."
Declan glances at the trail markers, a slight frown crossing his features. "Are you sure? The markings here indicate?—"
"I'm sure," I interrupt. "According to the map, we continue on 4B to reach the final checkpoint."
He hesitates, then shrugs. "You're the navigator."
We take the right fork, and I ignore the small voice suggesting I'm being stubborn. The path climbs steadily upward, becoming narrower and less maintained than the earlier sections. After about twenty minutes, I begin to suspect we've made a wrong turn.
The trail markers have changed color, and the path is becoming increasingly overgrown. I discreetly check the map again, trying to determine where we might have gone wrong.
"Lost?" Declan asks casually.
"Of course not," I respond automatically. "Confirming our position."
"Because these aren't Trail 4B markers anymore. We're on 5A now."
I stop walking, finally admitting to myself that we've gone astray. "That can't be right."
Declan points to a faded blue blaze on a nearby tree. "Blue is Trail 5. We should be following red markers for Trail 4."
I check the compass again, this time more carefully, and realize my error. The needle was pointing toward magnetic north, not true north, and I didn't account for the declination.
"The compass reading was correct," I admit reluctantly. "We should have gone left."
Instead of the smugness I expect, Declan just nods. "Happens to everyone. Mountain trails can be tricky."
"We should turn back," I say, already calculating how much time we've lost.
"We could," he says, studying the map over my shoulder. His proximity sends an unwelcome shiver down my spine. "Or we could continue on 5A. It eventually loops around to the final checkpoint from the north side."
"That's not the assigned route."
"True, but it's a more scenic detour. Plus, no one said we had to take the most direct path."
I weigh our options, acutely aware that my mistake has likely cost us the competition. "How much longer will it take?"
"About an hour more than our original route."
"An hour?" I shake my head. "Absolutely not. We're turning back."
Just as I pivot to retrace our steps, a low, distant rumble of thunder reaches us. We both look up to see dark clouds gathering over the mountain peaks.
"Storm's moving in," Declan observes. "Faster than I expected."
"You said you brought rain ponchos," I remind him.
"I did, but this trail gets slippery when wet. The 5A route has better coverage and passes by a wildlife blind where we can take shelter if needed."
Another rumble of thunder, closer this time, punctuates his point.
I clench my jaw, hating the position my overconfidence has put us in. "Fine. Lead the way."
"You sure? You were pretty adamant about being the navigator."
"Just show me the correct trail before we get soaked," I snap, my frustration bubbling over.
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Yes, ma'am."
As he steps past me to take the lead, the first fat raindrop lands on my cheek. Within seconds, more follow, and the gentle patter quickly intensifies to a steady downpour.
"Perfect," I mutter, yanking the rain poncho from my pack. "Just perfect."
"Don't worry," Declan calls over his shoulder, already moving at a brisk pace along the new trail. "I know exactly where we're going."
"I'm not worried," I insist, hurrying to keep up as the rain continues to intensify. "I just don't appreciate being lost in a downpour during what was supposed to be a simple team-building exercise."
"We're not lost," he corrects with infuriating calm. "We're taking the scenic route."
As the rain soaks through my hiking boots and the thunder grows louder, I realize I've unwittingly handed control over to Declan Callahan—exactly what I'd been determined not to do. And the most irritating part? A small, traitorous voice in my head suggests I might actually be safer following his lead than my own.