Chapter 4
CHAPTER 4
A fter grabbing our stuff from Gabe’s vehicle—which has now converted back into his summer home—Emma gets distracted and runs to the firepit area, where a cluster of planters are already gathered. She’s practically glowing as she rushes over, squealing and throwing herself into hugs like she’s been reunited with long-lost family.
She high-fives a guy with glasses, wraps her arms around a smaller woman with long brown hair and vintage-looking flared jeans, and dives headfirst into the chatter like she never left. Meanwhile, I’m standing here, clutching my bag and trying not to look like an outsider. My mud-caked, newly peed-on Uggs are making my feet sweat, and I feel about as out of place as a designer handbag at a yard sale.
A couple of voices call out to Emma, welcoming her back, and then she waves me over, all smiles. “Hey! Come here. I want to introduce you.”
I hesitate, but there’s no real way out of this, so I shuffle closer.
Emma’s already pointing me out. “This is Soleil Bellerose, my friend from back home.”
I give an awkward wave. “Hey.”
“Hey, Soleil. I’m Danimal, that’s Rolland, and this asshole over here is Jake,” says a guy who looks about my age with brown hair and thick black-rimmed glasses and an old suede cowboy hat. He steps forward, grinning as he gestures to the others. “Welcome to camp. First year?”
“Yeah, first year,” I say, trying to sound confident but mostly feeling sheepish. “I’m sorry, did you say ‘Danimal’?”
Jake pipes up, “Yeah, that’s what we call him because he’s a fucking animal when he drinks.” He pokes his finger in a hole at the top of Danimal’s hat. “See this here? He got that in a bar fight. The guy missed by a centimetre.”
Danimal grins like he’s in on whatever make-believe lie Jake is telling, “Just call me Dan. You with us on Gabe’s crew?”
“I think so,” I say, glancing at Emma. She’s my tether, and I’m not ready to stray too far from her orbit.
“Oh, sweet. We’ve got a rookie!” Dan claps his hands together. “Rookies always get the shi?—”
Emma smacks him in the stomach, cutting him off mid-sentence.
“Ugh… You’re gonna do great,” Dan says, rubbing his side. “Seriously, we’re pumped to have you. Gabe’s awesome. You’ll be balling it in no time.”
Emma spends the next half hour introducing me to a few more planters milling around camp. Some people are out socializing, but many have crashed in their tents already, gearing up for tomorrow.
We leave the firepit area, the tiny clearing that serves as a social hub. Then Emma shifts gears and starts laying out the schedule for tomorrow.
“Wake-up call is at five thirty. You should be grabbing breakfast by six. We get in the trucks at seven and then plant until five, dinner at six. Pass out and then wake up and do it all again the next day.”
I blink at her, letting the sheer grind of it sink in. “You’re not selling this right now.”
“What’s got your panties in such a twist all of a sudden?” she says, noticing where my gaze has drifted—to Gabe. “Oh, I see. I swear, he’s not usually this grumpy…” she murmurs.
“I guess I got lucky. Or maybe I’m the reason he’s in such a foul mood. Taking on a city girl with zero experience.”
She laughs, shaking her head. “No way. He’s not the type to judge anyone by their background—especially given his own. Trust me, his parents have deep pockets. Despite the whole rugged vibe, he wasn’t raised by wolves.” Emma nudges me with a mischievous gleam in her eye. “Come on—he’s not all bad, hey? I told you he was a cutie.” Her grin is downright infectious.
She’s not wrong. He’s freaking gorgeous.
I try to shrug it off, but my eyes can’t help but wander back to him.
“Come on, let’s set up. I’m camping over there.” She points to a small clearing next to Gabe’s battered Ford Explorer. “That patch”—she gestures to a slightly less muddy, semi-flat spot— “should work for you. Trust me, you’ll thank me later.”
I drag my bags over, dropping them with a heavy thud. I watch Emma stride off to her spot, pulling her tent out like this is another day in paradise. Meanwhile, I’m left standing on my patch of ground getting swarmed by a small cluster of mosquitoes, wondering if this is where I’ll officially break.
Unzipping my tent bag, I pull out the contents and stare at them: a jumble of mismatched poles, a handful of loose stakes, the tent, and a rainfly. I glance around, silently praying no one’s watching me fumble like a rookie. That’s when I notice exactly how close I’m setting up next to Gabe’s SUV. I’m basically twenty feet from his passenger door.
With a resigned sigh, I kneel and spread out the tent pieces, flipping through the black-and-white instructions like I’ve got this under control. The photo shows a perfectly assembled dome of nylon glory, all neat corners and taut lines. Easy enough, right? Meanwhile, the reality in my hands looks like a giant, bunched-up parachute.
Emma calls over from her half-finished tent. “You good?”
“Yep, totally fine!” I say, forcing a cheerful tone. I probably should’ve practised setting this up before I left home, but I just ran out of time. It’s not like I’ve never camped before—I have—but usually, Dad handles this part when we go out as a family. I really should have paid more attention.
Emma just shrugs and goes back to work. I hear her humming as she snaps her poles together with practised ease, making it look annoyingly simple. Meanwhile, I’m jamming one pole into what I hope is the correct hole. The tension builds, and I can feel the fabric resisting me, but I push anyway.
With a loud twang, the pole snaps out of place, smacking me on the shoulder before flopping to the ground like a dead fish.
“Son of a—” I hiss, grabbing my arm where it stung.
I hear a throat clear behind me, sending a hot flush of embarrassment up my neck. I press on, still fumbling with the tent and hoping whoever it is won’t notice how clueless I am. Then a low voice cuts right through my mortification: “That pole’s for the fly.”
I’m already starting to dread that voice—smug, confident, and annoyingly recognizable. The last person I want watching me struggle with this stupid tent…
I whip around to see Gabe standing there, arms crossed, leaning against the front of his SUV. “I don’t need guidance,” I say sharply, not even trying to fake politeness.
“I’m sure you don’t,” he says, stepping towards me. “But if you plan to sleep tonight, you might wanna try using the two identical poles for the tent structure.”
Hunched over my mess of a tent, I decide to ignore him. And while I’m still trying to match which poles go where, I suddenly sense his presence at my side. With one fluid motion, he sheds his jacket and tosses it onto the grass. The worn cotton of his T-shirt stretches across his chest, and I can’t help but track the movement of his muscles as he reaches for one of the tent poles.
I remind myself this is the same guy who chucked my luggage into the back of his SUV like it was trash, speaks in nothing but curt grunts and judgmental glares, and almost made me fall flat on my face while peeing on the side of the road. Sure, those eyes might be dangerously pretty, but they come paired with a tongue as callous as a tree planter’s hands.
Without a word, he starts snapping poles together in a methodical rhythm. In no time, he’s weaving them through loops and hooking them into place, forcing the fabric into something tent-shaped. I get so caught up in the way his hair curls at the nape of his neck that I barely register his first call of my name. “ Soleil .” he repeats, this time a bit sharper, snapping me out of my daze.
I jump, heat creeping around my neck.
“You wanna help with this so you know how to do it yourself next time?” He meets my stare with those glacier-blue eyes for a beat before returning his focus to the half-risen tent.
I bite back a retort as I jump to my feet a little too fast, nearly tripping over them in the process. Grabbing the other side of the tent and trying to fit the pole into its little slot, I watch as he anchors one corner of the tent with a tent peg. He tosses the rest of the pegs at my feet.
“Can you manage the rest?”
I glare at him, heat rushing to my cheeks. But he’s already walking away before the word leaves my mouth.
Emma peeks out from behind her tent, doing a poor job of hiding her amusement. “Nice, you got your tent up.”
“With the help of the grumpy bushman,” I huff, jamming a peg into place.
Emma angles her head. “I don’t know what’s gotten into him today.”
“He’s probably got a tent pole stuck up his ass.”
She just gives me a look. “Are you done? Once you get to know him, he’s really nice—especially when he’s not in such a shitty mood.”
“Yes, I’m practically swooning over his magnetic charm,” I say, voice dripping in sarcasm. “Seriously, you can’t be for real. Your favourite foreman judged me for… this. And this.” I point towards my suitcase and tent. “He’s a jerk hole.”
Emma snorts. “A jerk hole?”
“Ugh, you know what I mean. I’m tired and overstimmed from travelling all day.” I rub my temples, trying to ward off the tension headache brewing behind my eyes.
“Come on. Let’s get you some food and then call it a night,” she says, checking her watch. “It’s already late.”
We pulled in around seven-thirty, so it’s probably nearing nine after fumbling around camp and being schooled by Gabe in Tent Assembly 101. Prime time to wind down and brace myself for my first day out on the block tomorrow.
I head to the mess tent, which is dimly lit by a string of LED bulbs. Emma told me to prepare a small lunch for tomorrow, so I slap together a peanut butter sandwich and a brownie and then scoop myself a small bowl of cereal—my sad attempt at a meal before bedtime since it looks like we’ve missed dinner this evening. After a quick toothbrushing session, I shuffle over to my tent with my toiletries.
Just as I’m about to duck into my tent, I catch a light flick off in Gabe’s SUV. So, naturally, I turn towards his vehicle, throw out a glare, and, for good measure, stick my middle finger up in his direction—because, boss or not, he’s been on my case since he picked us up today. But then I hear it—a laugh. Deep, smooth, stupidly sexy. From the inside of his SUV. Oh God, he was watching. My face burns as I scramble into my tent, totally embarrassed because I just flipped off my foreman.
Everyone drones on about him being good at his job, but he apparently also has a knack for getting under my skin. My mind’s churning with visions of what he must have thought when he first saw me, wearing “city girl” shoes and carrying half a closet’s worth of gear. Girls like me don’t last here—yeah, I could practically see it in his stare.
But wait. Why do I even care what he thinks about me?
That’s right.
I don’t.