Chapter 8
CHAPTER 8
A few hours later, I glance up and spot Gabe prowling through my section, shovel slung over his shoulder, fluorescent pink plot cord clenched in his fist. He’s whistling. Is that a good sign, or a bad sign? He stops right where I know I rushed a few trees into the ground, stabs his shovel into the dirt, and starts pacing in a slow circle, holding the cord taut. My stomach knots as I watch him crouch down, inspecting each seedling with way too much intensity. Every tree gets the full Gabe treatment—critical gaze, finger prodding the soil, the works.
Oh great.
I try to keep planting, but panic starts creeping in. Heat crawls up into my ears as my mind spins. If I screwed up, this is the part where he makes me regret it. If my spacing’s off or my trees are sloppy, he’ll probably make me replant the whole thing. And replanting? That’s working for free—planting the same tree twice doesn’t double your pay; it gets you zilch. My shoulders ache just thinking about it.
When he finally trudges over, his expression is unreadable. He’s got his navy baseball cap pulled low, the waves of hair poking out even more damp and curling than usual—probably from sweat. His sunglasses hide his eyes, making him even harder to read. He stops a couple of feet away, looking like an immovable wall.
I frown, lifting from where I just planted a tree. “Everything okay?”
“You haven’t been to the cache all morning,” he says flatly. “I was starting to think you got lost in your piece.”
“Not lost, as you can see.” I take another three steps forward to plant my next tree, trying to sound calm. “I’m just making sure every tree is done right the first time, so I don’t have to replant.”
He presses his lips together, clearly unimpressed. “You shouldn’t stay out here so long without grabbing something to eat, at least every forty-five minutes. Where’s your water?”
“Oh… I forgot?—”
“Seriously?” He cuts me off, his tone sharper now. “You know you can get dehydrated even when it’s not that hot out? Didn’t you take the health and safety course before starting?”
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, feeling my cheeks heat up. “I forgot to take the course, okay?”
He gives me a deadpan stare. “Well, stop forgetting. You do know what happens when you get dehydrated, right? Oh, wait—you clearly don’t, since you skipped the course. Hallucinations, disorientation, you could wander off, faint—or worse. You want me to call your parents and tell them you got lost in the bush because you couldn’t remember to drink water?”
My nostrils flare. “Okay, don’t you think that’s a little dramatic? I’m not exactly pushing myself to the brink here and it’s clearly not that hot out, as I'm wearing a hoodie.”
He shakes his head, turning slightly so I can see the tension in his shoulders. “God, are you always this stubborn?” Then he jerks his chin toward the cache. “Go get some water.”
“But I’ve still got a few trees left.”
“How many?” His tone is all impatience now.
I peek into my Silvicool bag. “Uh, maybe thirty?”
“And how many did you start with?”
“A box? So… 250?” My voice comes out way smaller than I want it to.
“Jesus Christ. It’s taken you two hours to plant 220 trees?” He tilts his head back, muttering something under his breath that sounds a lot like, “This is why I don’t do rookies.”
“I was making sure my trees were good.” My voice wavers with annoyance as I feel my ears burn hotter.
He scowls at me, the disdain on his face so obvious it’s almost funny— almost . I cross my arms tighter, feeling like a nuisance he’s stuck with as a favour to Emma. His sigh says it all.
“Give me your bags,” he orders, arms outstretched.
I hesitate. “Why?”
“Just hand them over,” he barks, flicking his fingers in an impatient “gimme” gesture.
With a sigh, I slide the straps off my shoulders and unbuckle the front clip. Even though my bags are basically empty, it feels amazing to be free of the weight.
Gabe grabs them from me. “God, you’re tiny—it’s a miracle these bags even fit you,” he says, like he’s talking more to himself than to me. I can’t help glaring at him, but he’s too focused on adjusting the straps and buckle to notice.
Before I can even process what’s happening, he’s striding past me with those long legs of his, easily stepping over slash and tangled branches. “Where’s your last tree?” he calls over his shoulder.
I point, blinking in confusion, and he nods. “Watch how I do it.”
Trying to keep up with him is impossible—his stride is ridiculous. For every one of his steps, I’m practically jogging. I trail behind, watching him strike, slide, kick, move on, all in one seamless rhythm. He always knows exactly where his next two trees are going, even before he’s done planting the one he’s working on. It’s hypnotic. My eyes flick to his forearm, where the muscles flex with every precise lift of the shovel, and for a second, I almost forget how annoyed I am.
“Done.” He pulls the empty Silvicool liner bag out, dumps the leftover dirt on the ground. Then he unclips my bags and tosses them at my feet. The whole thing took him less than two minutes, and I glance at my watch in disbelief.
“Now get back to the cache, drink some water, and take a break before you pass out. And next time I catch you gardening, you’re bagging double.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, picking up the bags off the ground, unsure if I mean it or not.
He turns to leave, heading toward Emma’s section, but I can’t help myself.
“Wait!” I call out, sharper than I intended. “What about my piece? Are my trees okay?”
“They’re fine,” he says, his tone clipped. “Just keep doing what you’re doing, but faster. Much faster .”
I let out a shaky breath, my grip tightening on my shovel. See? You’re fine, Soleil. I just have to stop second-guessing every tree I plant and force myself to move a little quicker.
Then, as he walks away, he calls out something, almost as an afterthought. “Oh, and Sunshine? If you see any white papers on your piece, that maybe looks like a secret letter…” He pauses, a knowing grin tugging at his mouth. “Don’t pick it up.”
Oh my God—he basically just admitted that he went to the bathroom on my piece.
My eyes widen, and my face twists with outright horror. “That is so disgusting,” I hiss, barely controlling the urge to gag. I fix a fiery glare on his retreating back, half tempted to yell after him—but my words catch in my throat. He doesn’t even look back; he just keeps striding off, that low, smug chuckle echoing through the block.
I blurt, breathless, “You’re vile, Gabe. Vile!” But he’s already gone. Unbelievable.