Chapter 6
CHAPTER 6
T he kitchen tent is basically a flimsy metal frame swathed in thick plastic—like a bargain-basement carnival booth, except it’s a dull cream colour instead of a riot of stripes. And instead of some carny hyping up the crowd for a rigged game, it’s just the cook—who totally looks like he could’ve been a carny in another life—telling us to step right up, grab a plate of food!
I join the line of planters on the outside of the tent. There are warming trays full of different foods. I see scrambled eggs, different types of toast, oatmeal with fresh berries, cereal boxes, milk, and fruit cut up and peeled.
I usually don’t bother with breakfast—or lunch, for that matter—because I’m a coffee-and-snack person. At my last job, I went out of my way to avoid the lunchroom; hearing everyone chatter about their weekends, kids, or travel plans was never something I felt compelled to engage in, especially since it was only a temp job. But today’s my first day of actual hard labour, and I’m determined to make a decent impression. I guess that means forcing myself to eat something and interact with the other planters.
I take the large spoon in the warming tray of eggs and scoop a small pile onto my plate; I also grab a piece of brown toast, some butter and jam, and an apple. I then carry my breakfast over to the mess tent, which I assume is where I’ll find Emma.
The mess tent dwarfs the smaller kitchen setup in height and breadth, its thick canvas walls stretching to a peaked roof. A whiteboard hangs in one corner, dry-erase pens dangling from a frayed red twine. Near the centre, a battered wood folding table holds a Bluetooth speaker, a row of condiments, and a large coffee urn alongside a dented kettle and a variety of teas. Six long tables run down one side of the tent, each with benches cobbled together from thin wooden boards resting on hefty tree-log supports. A few tables are occupied by friendly yet exhausted faces—fellow planters I’ve met already but can’t place by name.
I’m basically identifying people by whatever stands out the most. Like, there’s “Dreadlock Guy,” for obvious reasons, and then there’s “Hippie Lady”—the woman with loose, unkempt brown hair and an armful of hemp bracelets. One guy with a buzzcut, wearing a grey wool sweater and camo cargo pants, looks up and acknowledges me with a quick nod and a small smile. That’s G.I. Joe.
I slip onto the far edge of his table, and manage a polite half-smile. I’m grateful he doesn’t try to rope me into conversation right away. I’d hoped to catch Emma, but she is nowhere in sight, presumably running behind, as usual.
I know I need to eat, but the picky eater in me still freaks out at questionable textures—like when I was a kid, I refused to eat tomatoes or when my food touched each other. Even now, certain foods set me on edge. I jab the fork into the fluffy eggs stacked on my plate, rolling them around without much enthusiasm. Finally, I force a mouthful, only to cringe at the cold, rubbery mess.
I jab at the eggs again, half wishing they’d magically transform into something more appetizing. Then, the bench across me groans as someone settles in with enough force to shake the table.
I glance up as Gabe sits down, still faintly smelling of cold morning air and gas fumes, his grin way too smug. He’s got on this blue-and-tan flannel over a grey-and-navy baseball tee with a graphic of a dirt mound and a shovel jammed through it, Mound Pounders emblazoned right underneath it. My first thought is, wow, that’s… kinda crass . But then I’m like, eh, maybe it’s just some planting term .
I offer a tight-lipped smile, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, good. Just who I wanted to share breakfast with—the seat warmer.”
He smirks, leaning back on the bench like he’s proud of himself. “That was my good deed for the day,” he says so coolly, as if he hasn’t completely ruined my appetite.
Without hesitation, he shovels a massive spoonful of oatmeal into his mouth. Meanwhile, I’m still poking at mine, trying to figure out if I can stomach another bite. No amount of salt and pepper is going to save this disaster, so I give up and reach for my toast instead.
Gabe notices me moving my eggs to the side of my plate with my fork. His glacier-blue eyes flick over me, arching an eyebrow as he asks, “What’s wrong with your eggs?”
I grimace, regretting the words before they’re out of my mouth. “They’re… cold and mushy,” I whine.
He lets out a dismissive snort, eyes flicking over the congealed eggs. “Cold and mushy?” he echoes. Before I can so much as stammer a protest, he reaches across the table in one quick motion, dragging my plate closer. The edge of the plastic dish scrapes against the wood. His gaze never wavers from mine, and the intensity in those eyes feels like a challenge all on its own.
He scoops a forkful of my half-eaten eggs, holding it up like he’s inspecting some weird artifact. I just sit there, frozen, my mouth slightly open in disbelief. He leans back on the bench, still holding my plate hostage, and cuts off any chance I have of reclaiming it.
I watch him as he lifts the bite to his mouth. His jaw moves quickly, deliberately, with every chew, and to my horror, my eyes drift to his lips. What are you doing? I scream internally . He’s literally being a condescending jerk— stop staring at his mouth! But no matter how much I yell at myself, I can’t seem to look away. He’s so confident with himself, so sure of his actions that he almost comes across as… Arrogant, presumptuous…
“They’re delicious. There’s nothing wrong with ‘em,” he says, like I asked for his opinion. “You’re just a picky eater.”
Cocky . That’s the word.
My fingers grip the edge of the table, irritation simmering just under the surface. “Well, I just don’t like the texture. I’m sensitive to wet, slimy foods,” I say defensively.
“Most foods are wet and slimy. What are you going to eat then?”
I ignore his question because I know he’s just looking for an argument. But I straighten as I snatch my plate back and add, “And don’t touch my food; I don’t need your germs.”
That gets him—his laugh comes out rich and deep, like it’s pulled straight from his chest. It’s the kind of laugh that makes his jaw tighten, his Adam’s apple shift, and, dare I say, it’s… sexy.
“I don’t have germs,” he fires back, his voice steady.
I smirk, raising a brow. “You could.”
He leans in then, just enough for me to feel his words. “Maybe you’ve got germs,” he says with a playful challenge. “But I didn’t complain when I put them in my mouth, did I?”
I swallow suddenly, feeling a little flushed by his teasing remarks.
His grin lingers, but his tone takes on something more grounded. “Listen, don’t eat the eggs if you don’t want to. But you do need to eat. We’re planting, not strolling through a park. Four thousand calories a day, minimum. Otherwise? You’ll hit that wall fast.” He pauses, letting his words sink in. “Don’t come whining to me later when you’re starving and dragging ass out there, okay? I don’t like sharing my lunch.” His tone says he’s teasing, but the look he gives me says he’s serious.
“I won’t,” I snap, crossing my arms. “I packed a lunch.”
His eyebrow quirks like he doesn’t believe me. “What’d you pack?”
“A sandwich and a brownie?” I say, not fully confident in my choice.
“That’s it?” he fires back, and now I feel extra stupid. How was I supposed to know what to pack? I wasn’t even hungry when I was throwing it together—figuring out lunch was very much a future Soleil problem.
“Yeah…” My voice trails off, suddenly second-guessing myself.
“That’s not a lunch—that’s a snack,” he says, shaking his head. “Pack twice as much as you think you’ll need. Trust me, you don’t want to be hungry out there.”
Before I can argue, Emma drops into the seat beside me.
Gabe’s face softens immediately, a smile breaking across his face. “Morning,” he says, like an entirely different person.
I blink. Wait, Gabe has manners?
“What, Emma gets a ‘good morning,’ and all I get is you making fun of me and my lunch choices?”
He turns to Emma, completely ignoring me like I’m not even there. “Hey, can you help Soleil figure out how much food she needs for the block today? She packed… what was it? A sandwich and a brownie?”
I shoot him an annoyed look, but of course, he doesn’t even notice.
Emma blinks, looking between the two of us, and then smiles. “Of course, but I think lunches are put away right now. I can check with the kitchen and see if there’s anything left over.”
His voice drops, soft and gravelly. “You’d be doing me a huge favour if you talked to Marco about pulling out more food for her.” Gabe smirks, leaning forward towards her. “Tell him I sent you and I’ll repay him with a six-pack. And I’ll get you a treat next time I’m in town for the hassle.”
Emma nods, her face turning a tinge of pink.
Wait, is he flirting with her? Does he even know how to flirt? Like, beyond grunting and throwing out that cocky grin?
“Sure, Gabe,” she says, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. “I’ll go as soon as I’m done eating.”
“Thank you. It’d really help me out,” he says back to her with a quick wink.
“You’re welcome,” Emma chirps as she goes back to eating her breakfast.
Gabe glances back at me with this playful look in his eyes. “Because I’m not sharing my lunch with her. Don’t need any—rookie germs.” He says the words in a staccato rhythm.
I roll my eyes so hard, it’s a miracle they stay in my head. And, of course, I can feel his gaze settle on me like he’s daring me to snap back at him. He leans back, casually lifting those stupid broad forearms off the table. It should be illegal—someone this aggravating shouldn’t be allowed to have arms that toned and that stupidly beautiful. And don’t even get me started on the dusting of hair making them look unfairly good. Straight to jail.
“Wow, you’re really into telling me what to do,” I snap, the words slipping out before I can stop them. And then I remember—right. Gabe’s my boss. Technically, he can tell me what to do.
He laughs, slow and easy, like he’s got all the time in the world to needle me. There’s something flickering in his eyes now—something that feels like a challenge. “I am,” he says, with a smirk that somehow manages to be both infuriating and kinda magnetic all at once. “Because starting today, you work for me. I decide where you plant on the block. So if you don’t want to get stuck with the shittiest land, you should probably start kissing my ass.”
“Kissing your ass wasn’t in the job description, but I’m a quick learner.”
Gabe smirks as he stands, picks up his radio, and leans towards my ear. “Careful, Soleil. Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
I look at him with a scoff, but there’s the faintest hint of a smile poking through.
His glacier-blue eyes hold mine for just a second too long, like he’s considering saying something else, before he says, “Hurry up and eat. We’re leaving in twenty.”
I shove the plate away and take a deep breath, forcing myself to focus. If I can’t even get through breakfast on day one without letting him rattle me, what will it be like out there for the rest of the summer? I never assumed tree planting would be easy, but I came here to prove I can handle this. And I’m not about to let some smug foreman knock me off my game.
Even if he does have nice lips.