Chapter 15
CHAPTER 15
A steady drizzle patters against my hood, each drop tapping a relentless rhythm on the thin shell of my waterproof jacket as I bend over to plant yet another tree. It’s not a torrential downpour, but it’s persistent enough to soak my leather boots and stir an ache from the blister that formed on my big toe a few days ago. I force my shovel into the mud, biting down on a grimace as I grab another tree with my injured hand.
Today, my coffee burn is raw and tender—what was once an intact blister has torn open, leaving pinkish skin with ragged edges. The welt that formed burst open on my first tree of the morning, sending a jolt of hot pain radiating through my hand. A thin yellowish crust is trying to form over the exposed area, but the constant movement and dirt make it difficult to heal. The surrounding skin is red and slightly swollen, and it throbs each time I press my palm against the blade to slide a seedling down.
Now, with rainwater and mud seeping into my gloves, I’m starting to worry it might be infected. This dumb little injury is just a painful reminder of how something this small can really make things difficult in harsh conditions. I’m out of bandages from Marco’s stash, so as soon as I’m done with my bag-up, I’ll have to head to the truck to raid the first-aid kit.
On top of having to worry about my injured hand, Jessie eavesdropping on my conversation with my parents at the laundromat yesterday keeps replaying in my head like a nagging loop I can’t shut off. Her expression shifted in my memory like she’d figured out something I wasn’t ready to worry about yet. The guilt is eating away at me over wanting that job back home and the thought of leaving before the season ends.
Then there was the dream, still fresh in my mind. Not just any dream—a dream I shouldn’t have had. It began innocently enough: Gabe was hauling a couple of heavy tree boxes over to my cache, his faded T-shirt clinging to every contour of his torso, sweat highlighting the muscles in his arms. For a second, I just stood there, gawking like an idiot at the way his shoulders moved beneath that worn cotton. Then suddenly, he took his shirt off in one smooth motion, the way guys do with two hands grabbing at the back of their neckline, and then it was flung aside like it was no big deal, and his hands were on me—one sliding around my waist, the other braced against my back, pulling me flush against his bare skin.
In the dream, his voice dropped low and gravelly as he leaned in, murmuring something I couldn’t quite catch, but the rush of his breath against my skin was unmistakable—hot and electric, raising goose bumps along every inch of me. The sensation of his breath brushing over my ear made me shiver, and then his lips found my neck—slow, deliberate, leaving fire in their wake. He trailed a path downward, each press of his mouth sending my pulse skyrocketing. I felt the rough scrape of stubble against my collarbone as his grip on my hips tightened, anchoring me in place, demanding that I take in every ounce of closeness he offered.
I should have pushed him away, ordered him to stop—but Dream-Me was having none of that logic. Instead, I tilted my head back, letting him trail hot, open-mouthed kisses along my jaw. The rush of desire was as potent as the smell of… body odour? That’s odd , I thought—yet, in that hazy dreamscape, it somehow still seems… plausible.
But then something shifted. My hand slid over what should have been his broad, warm back, only to feel… nylon? My fingers grazed the crinkly fabric of his shirt, maybe? No. He’d tossed it. So, what was I feeling? Surely, he didn’t have skin that felt like synthetic fabric.
Suddenly, my dream started to fade as I was brought back to reality—my legs tangling in the too-tight bag, my spine contorted at a weird angle, and my face pushed up to the side of the dewy tent. That’s when I realized I was petting the top of my sleeping bag, and the musky, sweaty cologne I smelled turned out to be the stale funk of my own dirty-clothes bag tucked in the corner of my tent. That flutter of attraction hit a wall of grimy reality like a bird smacking a window.
I’m definitely drawn to Gabe—anyone who isn’t a feral woman raised by wolves in some cave would be. Then again, with his scruffy “I live in the bush and plant trees” vibe, maybe that feral woman would lock eyes with him, decide civilization was worth it, and sign up for taxes and a nine-to-five just to be around him. But am I really so attracted to him that my brain put together an erotic hormone-induced dream?
Gabe—the one who likes to tease me, push me, and belittle me with his snarky banter every chance he gets? He’s always got that stupid grin that reeks of charming confidence—except this morning. He’s been quiet and more business-like today. He gave me a pleasant, “Good Morning, Sunshine,” when I got in the truck and then proceeded to keep his leg-spread in check. And even now, he hasn’t been around to bug me about my trees yet. I wonder if it has anything to do with him hanging around Jessie yesterday. If I were in her shoes, and I still had feelings for him, I’d probably try to cut out any potential competition for his attention too.
Meanwhile, it’s been two days since we were last at this block, and now I remember why I ended the last shift feeling all smug: I totally creamed myself out. I know, it sounds… dirty. But trust me, it’s worse.
“Creaming yourself out” is when you decide to plant all the easiest, nicest parts in your section right away—maybe because you’re exhausted, or your day is sucking, and you need a small win. Or sometimes you think you’re not coming back to that piece—maybe you’re bailing from camp and want to leave on a high note or skipping work for some random “unplanned circumstance.” So you take all the easy, good land and plant it, leaving the absolute shit for someone else to do, or if you’re a sucker for punishment, you leave it for yourself. On day one. In the rain. With a possibly infected hand from a coffee scalding.
At least it’s not pouring, I remind myself. Who are you kidding, Soleil? This is fucking miserable, and I’m already kicking myself for not sending out more résumés instead of pinning all my hopes on écoForêt. I’m secretly praying they took one look at my credentials, were blown away, and immediately closed the call for applicants—so they can whisk me back to Montreal ASAP. But let’s be real—the odds of that are basically zero. They’ve probably gotten hundreds, if not thousands, of résumés.
Now, here I am, wet and cold from being out in the rain all morning, trying to fix this mess that I have created. Just keep moving, I tell myself, sliding a seedling along the back of my blade into the slit. The movement causes my burn to sting through the wet and muddy glove. If I stop, even for a minute, the cold will creep into my bones. My toes are already chilled inside damp boots, and my cheap rain pants have a tear along the thigh. Not gaping, but enough that I can feel droplets sliding against my leggings.
I take the chance to look at my injury and peel back my soaking glove. Just as I suspected, it’s red, but not hot, so I take that as a good sign. I just need to clean it and re-bandage it. I start walking towards the road, when a soft rumble snaps my attention. Through the light mist, I spot Gabe in the work truck, his window rolled down, scanning the block as he comes to a stop. But when his irritating gaze lands on me, I catch that smug grin before he rolls the window up. Then he leans back, sprawled in the driver’s seat, fiddling with the heater controls and rubbing his hands theatrically in front of the vents, like he’s putting on a little show of how toasty and comfortable he is. The jerk’s obviously enjoying every moment of my misery in the rain. I can’t help but laugh at how annoying yet adorable he can be sometimes. At least he knows how to crack us up when we’re having a crappy day.
But then a wicked little idea sparks in my brain.
Two can play this game, Gabe.
I wave him down, trying to look as urgent as possible. “Hey! Emma’s looking for you at the back of her piece!” I shout through his closed window, making my voice tight and serious.
He sits up all serious-like and rolls the window down, looking at me with concern.
“She sounded pretty stressed—something about her trees? Didn’t sound like an emergency or anything, but she said she needed you, like, right away.”
He tilts his head, squinting at me suspiciously. “Yeah? She didn’t say why?”
“No, but it sounded important,” I lie smoothly. “Maybe there’s, like, an extra pocket of land at the back of her piece or something?”
He raises an eyebrow, and for a second, I’m sure he’s going to call me on it. But then he just sighs, gives me a curt nod, rolls up the window, and kills the engine. Without another word, he hops out, leaving his jacket on the passenger seat. Perfect. The rain pelts him immediately, soaking his hair and shirt in seconds. He pauses just long enough to shoot me a look, and I shrug, trying not to grin.
Once he’s gone, I slide into the passenger seat of the truck, closing the door behind me with a satisfying thud. The lingering heat hits me right away, warm and cozy, still carrying that distinct aroma of wet socks with a tinge of sweaty tree-planter musk. Gross but oddly comforting. Spotting the first-aid kit on the dash, I waste no time grabbing it and getting to work on my hand.
I’m halfway through wrapping it when the door flies open so hard I nearly fall off the seat. Gabe’s standing there, drenched to the bone, his blond hair plastered to his forehead and rain dripping down his face. “You lied to me,” he says, a little annoyed but also a little playful and a little breathless from running back.
I gesture at the wet streaks on his T-shirt, struggling not to laugh. “You’re a little wet.”
He narrows his eyes, water still dripping down his face. “Because someone rushed me out of the truck for an emergency.”
“No,” I say, smirking. “I said it’s probably not an emergency.”
He opens his mouth to argue but then just closes it, snorting and letting his shoulders drop like he’s giving up.
“So it wasn’t serious then?” I ask, doing my best to look innocent, though I can’t quite keep the smugness out of my voice. “Huh. I could’ve sworn…”
“Cut the crap,” he snaps back as he slides into the driver’s seat without another word. I can’t tell if he’s pissed, annoyed, or something else entirely, and suddenly, I feel that tight knot of insecurity in my stomach.
Dammit, Soleil, you’ve gone and done it now. You’re getting the shittiest pieces for the rest of the season.
“Bold move, rookie,” he says, leaning back in his seat with that crooked, mischievous smile. “You better watch your back.”
And then, like the absolute menace he is, he shakes his head like a wet dog, sending a spray of cold rainwater all over me.
“Ew! Stop!” I squeal, my hands flying up to shield my face as I break into uncontrollable laughter. “Oh my God, ew, stop it!” I’m giggling so hard it’s impossible to sound serious.
He breaks into a wide grin, eyes crinkling with genuine delight, like hearing me laugh was exactly what he was aiming for. A small dimple appears above the crest of his smile.
“You got me all wet, you jerk!” I snort, still laughing. But he doesn’t say anything back. Instead, his eyes flick to my hand, where I’m awkwardly holding it in front of my face, the bandage a dead giveaway.
“What’s going on there?” he asks, his tone immediately suspicious.
“Nothing,” I say too quickly, yanking my hand down and shoving it into my jacket sleeve like that’ll make it invisible.
“Uh-huh,” he says, leaning back like he’s settling in for an argument. “Move your sleeve then.”
“No.”
He lets out the loudest, most over-the-top sigh, his head rolling back dramatically. My eyes catch on the sharp line of his throat and the way his Adam’s apple shifts as he exhales, and for some reason, it causes a slight adrenaline surge. I tear my gaze away quickly, not wanting to get caught staring.
“You’re unbelievable,” he says, completely unaware of the tiny, embarrassing effect he’s having on me.
“Pot, meet kettle,” I fire back without missing a beat, even as a flush creeps up my neck that I’m desperately hoping he won’t notice. “You’re the one who rides me about literally everything—where I sit, what I wear, how I plant.”
“I do not—” he starts, clearly offended.
I cut him off, gesturing to the middle seat like hello? evidence right here. “Yeah, you do. This is my assigned seat .”
He looks at the seat, then at me, and for a second, I think he’s going to argue again. But instead, he just shakes his head, muttering, “You’re something else, Soleil.”
The corner of his mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile. Then his posture relaxes, and he exhales heavily. “Are you leaving?” he asks, out of nowhere.
The question lands like a punch to the gut. “Who told you that?”
He just looks at me.
“It was Jessie, wasn’t it?” I press, already knowing the answer. God, I knew it. “I knew she was eavesdropping on my conversation with my parents.”
“The same way you were eavesdropping in your tent the other day when she showed up?”
“I was not! I was changing. And I got a bug stuck in my throat, so I was choking on it.”
He snorts. He’s not buying it.
“Okay, fine. I’m sorry. I did overhear your conversation. There was nothing riveting except how much she really doesn’t like me because I took her spot on your crew…” I press him a little harder with a subtle remark, “and how much she loves flirting with you.”
“Who says she’s flirting? Maybe she’s just being nice.”
“Yeah, no. I know when a girl’s flirting. She was basically glued to you last party night,” I add, trying to keep it casual but feeling a hint of desperation slip through.
“I’m not getting into camp drama,” he replies coolly. “I just need to know if I need to replace you.”
“Well, if you must know—I applied for a job back in Quebec. It’s with an environmental consulting company and it’s the job I’ve been waiting for since I graduated. They don’t often have job postings, but when they do, they’re high in demand, so my chances are… slim. But if I do get it, it won’t start until mid-July, okay?”
He stares at me, rainwater trickling down his jawline. “So you are leaving then?”
I sigh, loud and frustrated. “No, but maybe? I haven’t even heard back yet. They might just ghost me. Either way, I’m not packing up and leaving yet.”
His gaze flicks down to my hand again, then back to my face. Slowly, the tension in his jaw eases. “Good for you. I hope you do get the job… if that’s what you really want,” he says finally. Then, with a shake of his head, he adds with a teasing smirk, “So I guess it doesn’t matter if Jess was flirting with me anyway. Because you won’t be here to worry much about it in a few weeks.”
I let out an incredulous laugh. “I guess not.”
He pauses, like he’s debating saying something else, then pivots. “You know, you could’ve just come to me and told me about the job, right?”
I nod and shift toward the passenger door, biting back a wince when my sleeve scrapes over my injured hand.
His eyes flick back to my hand. “You should let me look at that. If it’s infected, you’re not going to be able to plant.”
I bristle at the suggestion, more embarrassed than anything. “It’s fine.”
“Let me see it,” he says, this time softer but insistent. His eyes hold mine for a long moment, and I cave with a groan.
“Fine. But you’re redoing the bandage. It’s impossible with one hand.”
Without another word, he reaches for my wrist and carefully pulls back the sleeve. I freeze as he peels off the soggy, half-done wrap I’d just put on, exposing the raw, pink skin.
I hiss at the sting, and he mutters a quick, “Sorry,” while inspecting it closely. “Well, it’s not infected,” he declares confidently, his voice oddly calm. “But it’s not clean, either.” He shifts on the seat, propping my hand on his damp thigh. The move feels oddly personal, as I can feel his body heat radiating out from his Carhartts. “Did you even clean it?” he asks, grabbing antiseptic from the kit.
“As best I could,” I mumble.
“You might need to soak it a little to get some of that caked-in dirt out of there,” he mutters, scanning my face for pain as he carefully starts to dab the antiseptic gauze pad onto my hand. “This might sting a little.”
It burns like hell, but I manage to stay quiet, grimacing only slightly.
Just then, a single strand of dark-blond hair—still damp from the rain—slides across his forehead as he tilts his head forward. I watch a tiny droplet glide down it and slip off the tip, and for one split second, I wonder what it would feel like to reach over and tuck that strand back into place. Would it feel as soft as I’m imagining?
“You okay?” he asks, glancing up at me through his thick eyelashes.
“Yeah. I’m fine,” I say quickly, my voice a little too loud.
He focuses back on my hand, wiping away grit and wrapping the fresh bandage with slow, deliberate movements. “How’d you even do this?”
“Pouring coffee,” I mumble, my voice a little defensive.
He lets out a soft snort. “Uh-huh,” he drawls, clearly not buying a word of it.
When he finishes, his hands linger on mine for a second longer than necessary. His eyes meet mine, sharp and searching, and the space between us suddenly feels too small.
“ She was glued to me. Not the other way around, and anyway, I wasn’t paying much attention to Jessie at that party.”
I blink, thrown. “Oh?”
He smirks, his gaze steady. “I was focused on something else.”
Oh . The rain outside feels louder than ever.
A loud clatter on the truck breaks the moment, and he drops his gaze, releasing my hand.
The passenger door behind Gabe flies open, letting in a gust of cold wind and a whoop of energy. “Holy crap, it is dumping out there!” Dan tumbles in, shaking water off his coat. “Hey, turn down the heat, man! It’s getting foggy in here.”
Gabe shifts away from me, dropping the first-aid kit. A faint flush creeps up his neck as he turns to fiddle with the temperature knobs. “Yeah,” he mutters, clearing his throat. “No problem,” he replies, his normally deep voice suddenly lurching into an embarrassingly high pitch.
My cheeks burn, and I hastily tuck my newly bandaged hand into my jacket pocket.
Dan throws himself across the back seat, oblivious to the thick undercurrent he’s interrupted.
Before anyone starts making assumptions, I yank open the door and slip outside. Cold raindrops sting my cheeks, but I welcome the shock of it. Out here, the downpour at least washes away some of that feverish heat clinging to my skin. And for now, that’s all the relief I need.
The last hour of the day finally rolls around, and as if the universe is throwing me a bone, the rain lets up. The clouds still hang low and grey, all moody and dramatic, but at least they’re done dumping water on us. My boots squelch loudly in the mud as I trudge toward the cache for my last bag-up, every step sticking like the earth is trying to reclaim me.
When I get to the cache, I stop short. The truck is gone now. Gabe’s probably off doing his foreman thing further down the road, checking someone else’s piece before we wrap up. That’s when I notice it: a plastic Ziplock perched right on top of my backpack.
I freeze, squinting at it. Did I leave something behind earlier? No, I would’ve remembered. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I grab the bag, peeking inside. There’s a small tube of ointment, a couple of fresh bandages, and… a folded piece of paper.
My eyebrows go up as I pop open the bag, tugging the note out with cautious fingers.
The handwriting is quick, a little slanted, and it reads:
If you burned your hand just from looking at me fully clothed, imagine what kind of trouble you’d get into staring at the rest of me.
I let out this half-laugh, half-gasp because, of course Gabe would write something like that—cocky, borderline scandalous, and definitely calculated to make me lose my cool.
I stuff the note back into the Ziplock, my fingers shaking just enough to annoy me. There’s this stupid grin creeping onto my face that I can’t quite control, and I have to physically shake my head to snap out of it. I tuck the ointment and bandages into my backpack.
He’s just being a shameless flirt. That’s all. It doesn’t mean anything… or, at least, that’s what I tell myself. He’s your foreman, and you’re here to work. That’s all.
Sure, Soleil. Whatever helps you sleep at night.