Chapter 12
CHAPTER 12
M y body is absolutely wrecked after yesterday’s marathon of surpassing a thousand trees. I’m sore in places I didn’t even know existed. On the upside, I slept like the dead last night. Apparently, planting trees until your limbs give out is the key to knocking yourself out cold.
It’s freezing again this morning, but the clear skies suggest it might actually warm up later. I pull on my layers, wincing as I stretch my back and shuffle to the kitchen tent. I grab a plate of French toast and fruit and settle at one of the long, wooden tables. The comforting smell of coffee drifting from the table in the middle of the mess tent hits me right in the soul as it mingles with the buzz of planters chatting over breakfast. At least the general mood around camp seems brighter: someone’s got a Bluetooth speaker blasting a relaxed indie playlist, and everyone’s a bit more talkative than they were on day one.
Kiska, the camp dog, is making his rounds, hovering near the tables, eyes locked on his next victim—the weakest link who’ll cave under the pressure of his perfected puppy-dog stare and slip him a few scraps of bacon. And clearly, whatever he’s doing is working, because despite running after Logan all day on the block, he’s not losing any weight.
I’ve managed a few cheerful “Morning!” greetings to people I recognize now—Brie, Tara, and the tall guy with dreads, Markus. Even the cook gave me a knowing grin from behind the grill. Slowly but surely, I’m starting to feel like I belong here.
Still, my body’s moving like molasses, and the fog of sleep isn’t quite gone yet. I trudge to the makeshift coffee station, grab a mug that doesn’t match anything, and pray the caffeine will turn me back into a human. As I press down on the dispenser, letting the coffee stream into my cup, my eyes wander across the tent.
That’s when I spot Gabe. He’s standing at a table with a group of foremen and tree haulers, towering over everyone, narrating plans for the day. They’re all glued to whatever he’s saying while he gestures at a map, his hand bracing one corner against the light breeze blowing through the tent. He’s wearing a dirt-streaked white T-shirt that somehow makes him look rugged instead of just filthy, and his beige Carhartts hang low on his hips in that purely practical way that somehow still works.
Then he shifts, and I catch a glimpse of his arm. The way the tight sleeve hugs his biceps when he flexes is… distracting. My eyes follow the curve of the muscle, hovering somewhere between admiring and straight-up eye-fucking. I let my gaze drift to his face, noticing his angular yet scruffy jawline and perfect symmetrical nose—right as hot coffee sloshes over the rim of my cup and burns my hand.
“Shit, ow!” I yelp, yanking my hand away and nearly dropping the mug. The sting is immediate, and a welt is already forming—on my tree hand. Perfect.
I glance around, desperate for a napkin or something, but no luck. That’s when I catch Gabe’s gaze flick in my direction. For half a second, his brow creases with what almost looks like concern, but just as fast, he’s back to the map, pointing at something for his group. Hopefully, he didn’t spot me staring at him.
My hand throbs as I try to shake it out, biting back a groan. It’s day four, and I’ve already managed to injure myself over coffee and… biceps. Fantastic.
Someone from a nearby table calls out. “You okay, Soleil?”
“Yep, fine. Just wasn’t paying attention,” I mumble, waving the other planters off like it’s no big deal. I dump some coffee out to avoid another spill and head back to my bench, cradling my poor hand and pretending everything’s fine.
Emma’s already watching me, though, and there’s a knowing look in her eye. “You naughty, naughty girl,” Emma says, her voice thick with mockery. “You just got caught red-handed, drooling—no, gaping —at your foreman. I watched the whole thing go down. Luckily for you, no one else saw you hypnotized by his big-boy muscles.”
I groan, dropping my head into my unburned hand. “It’s not funny. This hurts like hell.”
Kiska pops his head up from under the table by my legs, instantly clocking in that I’m the weakest link—distracted, injured, and an easy target.
“Not now, Kiska,” I hiss, still inspecting the red mark between my thumb and index finger.
He stares at me for a second, like he’s debating if I’ll crack, then lets out a dramatic snort and wanders off in search of a softer target.
Emma bites back her grin, but there’s real concern in her voice now. “That looks nasty. You should go see the cook. He always deals with burns—he’ll know what to do.”
I sigh, shaking my head. “Marco’s busy right now. If Gabe notices, he’ll never let me live it down.”
“Suit yourself,” she says with a shrug. “But you don’t want that to get worse.”
She’s right, of course.
A few minutes later, after scarfing down my breakfast, I wander toward the kitchen tent, hoping to spot Marco. His helper is standing around serving up the last few planters. The place is chaotic as usual: giant pots steaming on open burners, greasy spatulas piled in buckets, and the constant hum of the generator. But he’s nowhere in sight. I duck around the back, slipping past stacked crates of canned goods.
That’s when I see him leaning against a huge propane tank. He’s smoking a cigarette, as if he’s got no clue how risky that is. Or he probably does, but he certainly doesn’t give a shit. He’s wearing an oil-stained apron that’s seen far better days, and a pair of black-and-white pinstriped chef pants. The whole vibe is “retired mobster meets camp dad,” down to his burly forearms and peppered moustache.
Marco flicks some ash onto the ground and finally notices me standing there. “Yes, you can get seconds. Just ask Jeff for more.”
“No, that’s not what I need right now.”
He looks me up and down, exhaling a curl of smoke. “What’s the problem, darlin’?”
I start, clearing my throat. “Emma said you might be able to help me out?” I approach while cradling my hand. I hold it up, showing him the red welt from the coffee scalding.
He clicks his tongue like a disappointed dad. “Not great,” he mutters. “You’ll need to keep that clean and covered. Dirt’s the last thing you want in there. How did you get this?”
“Pouring coffee.” I don’t offer any other details.
Before I know it, he’s ushering me into the first-aid tent. With practised efficiency, he inspects the burn, wraps it, and hands me a few more gauze pads and bandages. “Wear this under your planting glove to keep it clean. But it’ll get sweaty, so you’ll have to change it often.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, relieved he didn’t ask too many questions. The last thing I need is Gabe knowing I’m already injured.
Rushing back to my tent, I throw on my planting gloves and layers, making sure the bandage is completely hidden. By the time I make it to the edge of the gravel parking area where all the trucks are idling, everyone’s piled in. Gabe’s scanning the camp, probably about to send someone to find me.
I sprint over, panting as I throw my gear into the back. “Sorry!” I call out, waiting for Emma to slide out of her spot so I can squeeze into the middle seat. “Just… girl stuff.”
He raises an eyebrow, curiosity flickering in his eyes. They drop to my hands for half a second—like he’s maybe noticing me already wearing my gloves.
Throwing on my best “nothing to see here” face, I avoid eye contact and focus on the road ahead. Back to the grind—hand injury and all. Let’s hope the rest of the day goes better than my morning.