Chapter 20
CHAPTER 20
A round noon, I spot Gabe over at the cache from a distance. At first, it’s just a passing glance—I’m wiping sweat off my forehead, adjusting the straps on my planting bags, only thinking about water and shade. Gabe was right—it’s a hot one today.
He’s been planting alongside us, making sure we finish the block instead of having to stay late or fly back just to put in an extra thousand trees. I’m about to look away, already shifting back to work, but then he moves—something about the way he does it makes me pause. I don’t know what it is, but suddenly, I can’t look away.
He’s grabbing his shirt and lifting it over his head, then he tosses it carelessly to the side by the cache, leaving his tanned skin glinting in the midday sun. His planting bags are strapped tightly around his hips, emphasizing the solid, broad strength of his frame. The muscles in his chest and shoulders shift with a controlled power that’s impossible to ignore.
Then, as if the universe has it out for me, he tips his water bottle and pours water over himself. And I swear time slows. The stream catches the light as it trails down his neck, over his chest, and along the sharp lines of his abs. The droplets cling to his skin for half a second before sliding lower, and suddenly, it feels borderline illegal to keep watching.
But I can’t look away. It’s like staring into the sun. Jesus H. Christ, this man is going to be the death of me , I think, but my body’s not listening. For a split second, I let myself imagine what it’d be like to touch him—to trace the path of those droplets with my fingers. To slide my tongue along the planes of his muscles, to taste the salt on his skin, and feel the warmth of him under my body.
Soleil, snap out of it. He doesn’t hook up with his planters. That’s rule number one. Rule number two? There’s way too much distance between us—he’s grounded here in Alberta, and I’m gone after the season, back to Montreal and everything that may be waiting for me there. And rule number three? Wait, there is no rule number three. But it feels like there should be because I’m going to need more rules to hold me back if this show keeps up. So what is this? It’s just a fantasy. A fleeting, ridiculous fantasy that doesn’t exist outside the haze of heat, exhaustion, and planting-season hormones.
I’m so caught up in the moment that I don’t hear Emma approach until she’s standing right next to me.
“Careful, you’re about one second away from starting a forest fire.”
I keep staring, my face burning. “I know,” I mutter, completely unapologetic.
Emma smirks, crossing her arms as she looks toward Gabe. “Can’t blame you. Sometimes I think he does it on purpose, just to keep morale high.”
Oh, it’s working. My morale is very high.
I nod, barely aware of the words leaving my mouth. “He’s so tanned, so ridiculously muscular, so…” I trail off, suddenly too aware of what I’m saying.
Emma turns to me, her grin growing wider. “Uh-oh.”
“What?” I stammer, heat rushing to my face.
“I think you might have a crush on your foreman.” She smirks. “What happened to the whole ‘I’m all business’ version of Soleil?”
I bite my lip, trying to shove it all back down, but it’s useless. It clings to me like the heat of the sun—maybe it’s just a sweaty, planting-season fantasy, but I can’t shake the thought that maybe, just maybe, it’s exactly what I want.
The chopper has already come for the first group, the engine’s thud fading into the distance as it disappears over the horizon. It’s past five now, and the sky’s darkening, that slow evening breeze promising a storm that’s currently building to the west.
I look up just as I go to plant another tree, catching a flicker of lightning way off in the distance. It’s still a ways out, so I’m not panicking yet, but if it gets here, the helicopter won’t be able to make the trip back until the weather clears. Gabe made that clear during our morning briefing—the chopper will be grounded if there are low-lying clouds or heavy lightning.
My muscles are on fire. My shoulders ache from heaving my planting bags all day, and my legs feel like solid lead. It could be the heat, or maybe just straight-up exhaustion, but either way, I’m determined to finish my piece—one hundred trees to go. I can do this.
I’m so focused on getting the next tree in the ground that I don’t hear Gabe until he’s almost on top of me. He’s got a shirt on again— thank God —but still, seeing him up close like this makes me feel a flush around my neck. He doesn’t say anything, just stops a few feet away, watching me with a look I can’t read.
I wipe the sweat off my forehead and open my mouth to say something, but before I can, he steps closer. He reaches into my right-side planting bag and grabs a handful of seedlings, then walks a few steps away and starts planting, just like that.
I blink, caught off guard for a second, but then I jump back to work. We settle into a rhythm quickly, planting side by side in silence. It’s not awkward—there’s something almost soothing about the soft clink of shovels, the rustle of seedling bags, and the quiet grunts as we tuck each tree into the ground. It’s like we’re talking without words, a language only tree planters know.
The first cold drop of rain hits the back of my neck, and I glance up right as the wind picks up. There’s thunder on the horizon, and Gabe’s radio crackles—the pilot’s voice, saying, “Storm’s in my way. I’m waiting it out—don’t wanna fly through hail.”
Gabe calmly tells him we’ll hang tight, then looks at me for a second before planting another tree. Meanwhile, the rain starts coming down in thick, wet droplets.
By the time we’re done with our last trees, the rain is coming down in sheets.
Gabe turns to me, raising his voice over the pounding storm. “Head to the cache!”
It’s only about fifty feet away, but it feels like a marathon in the deluge. We’re running, laughing, and thunder cracks overhead, making me yelp—part terror, part adrenaline.
We scramble under the tarp, soaked to the bone, water streaming from our hair and clothes. Gabe laughs, brushing a hand through his dripping hair, and I try wringing out the bottom of my shirt.
“This is insane,” I say, half laughing, half out of breath. “I never imagined I’d end up in the middle of nowhere, caught in a rainstorm, with—” I stop, suddenly realizing how close we are, how his eyes are locked on me in this tiny space.
“With what?” he asks, his voice pitched low and teasing, rainwater still dripping off the tip of his nose.
I glance at him, and my pulse stumbles over itself. With possibly the most handsome man I’ve ever met.
The rain slams down harder, icy and relentless, sending a chill straight through my shirt. One minute it’s hot enough to fry an egg, the next I’m shivering, teeth chattering. Gabe glances over at me, his gaze snagging on my drenched T-shirt—my nipples clearly visible through the thin fabric. I see the brief flash of awareness in his eyes before he meets my gaze.
“You cold?” he finally asks, voice low, trying to keep it casual.
I nod, teeth threatening to chatter as I hug my arms tighter around myself.
He reaches into his pack and pulls out a black hoodie—big, worn, with the words Silvertip Reforestation on the front. “Here,” he says, pressing it into my hands.
I pull it on quickly, the heavy fabric soft against my damp skin. It smells like him—manly, clean, and that intangible something that’s purely Gabe. I can’t help pulling the sleeves to my nose, inhaling deeply his scent. I’m so absorbed in the moment that I don’t notice him watching me until his amused voice breaks through my haze.
“What are you doing?” he asks, brow arched in playful curiosity.
Heat rushes to my cheeks. “I’m… reminiscing,” I admit, clearing my throat. “Is this Irish Spring?” I ask, laughing as the words tumble out. The only reason I can even identify it is because my grandpa used to use that soap.
He smirks. “Yeah.”
A grin tugs at my lips. “I like it. It’s not what I expected you to smell like, though.”
His brow lifts. “And what, exactly, did you expect?”
“I don’t know—most mornings, you smell like diesel fumes. Sometimes there’s a bit of woodsmoke, and maybe a stray whiff of sweaty socks when we’re in the crew cab.” I flash him a half grin. “It’s definitely not that, you know, ‘rugged leading-man’ smell they’re always going on about in my romance novels—spruce and whisky, tobacco and citrus, sandalwood and tar… Truth is, I’ve never actually met a guy who smelled like vanilla tobacco, so maybe it’s all just some made up,” I wave my hands around to emphasize my point, “bullshit fantasy.”
He chuckles. “Bullshit fantasy is right. You ladies have an active imagination when it comes to describing us in your books.” He pauses for effect, then meets my gaze with a mischievous smile. “Truth is, we are simple creatures.”
“Well, you are. But not the guys back home, where I’m from. Most of them smell… expensive ,” I admit wryly.
He gives me a playful squint. “And that means…?”
“It means,” I say, trying to find a way to walk back on my comment, “they smell like they don’t know their way around the bush.”
Gabe laughs, a genuine, hearty sound. “So basically, I don’t smell like the make-believe men in your smut novels, and I don’t smell like money. Instead, I smell…”
Humble. Kind. Down-to-earth. I think to myself.
His voice cuts through my thoughts. “…Cheap. Is this your nice way of calling me frugal?” he teases. “I mean, you’re not wrong. I did buy that soap in bulk.”
“No,” I say, meeting his gaze. “I’m telling you I like how you smell. It’s clean, outdoorsy—fits you perfectly. It’s got bushman vibes.”
“Bushman, eh?” He looks away, cheeks heating ever so slightly. But the smile he fights back tells me he’s more pleased than he wants to admit. “Hey, I just remembered—have you heard anything about that job back home yet? The one you’re ditching us for?”
And there it is: the reminder that this—me, tree planting—is temporary. I’ve been so lost in the day-to-day—and, let’s be honest, in him—that I haven’t thought much about looking for work or even checked if écoForêt got back to me.
“Nope, not yet,” I say. “But the cell reception at camp is so horrible I can only check my emails when we’re in town on our day off.”
“It’s still early. I’m sure you’ll hear back soon,” he says, trying to reassure me.
I raise an eyebrow. “Why? You hoping I’ll leave? Finally tired of babysitting the rookie?”
He chuckles, but there’s a flicker of concern in his eyes. “Nah, that’s not it. Honestly… I like having you here. I just think you’ve earned the shot at whatever career you want—even if that means you’ll be leaving early.” He shrugs, a bit awkward. “I just want you to get what you deserve.”
The storm softens, the rain steady but less biting now, and I find myself asking, “Emma said you graduated with an engineering degree, but… it doesn’t sound like you loved it enough to want to pursue it… What happened?”
He shrugs, his expression clouding over slightly. “I didn’t hate it. I like the problem-solving, the structure. But it’s not…” He waves his hand at the storm around us, the wild energy in the air.
I nod, filling in the gap. “…this.”
“Exactly.” He glances at me, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “But it might not matter anyway. I’m working on a plan with Mike, the owner, to buy Silvertip in a few years.” His voice softens, quieter now. “I love planting. It’s made me a better person—taught me a lot. I’ve met some of my favourite people doing this, had some of my best memories here. And sure, I know I won’t be able to do it forever, but… I love the freedom. The wilderness. Spending the whole summer outside and getting paid for it? Nothing beats that.”
The rain tapers into a gentle patter, and something in his expression shifts to a softness I’ve never seen. A stray piece of my hair falls across my cheek, and I see him half-lift his hand like he wants to brush it away—like he might close that inch of space between us.
I murmur, “It’s brave, you know—wanting to do this on your own terms.”
For a second, he looks ready to follow through, gaze flicking to that stray strand just begging to be tucked behind my ear. But before he can, a flash of lightning splits the sky, followed by a deafening thunderclap that makes both of us jump. Just like that, the moment shatters.
I try to catch my breath, my pulse still racing, but Gabe’s already standing, brushing himself off like nothing happened. That familiar, professional foreman look slides back into place, like a door slamming shut. The one that says, loud and clear: I don’t hook up with my planters— or as I now call it, rule number one. But there’s something else too—a flicker of heat in his eyes that makes me think it’s getting harder and harder for him to stick to that rule.
“Once the storm clears,” he says, his voice steady and practical again, “I’ve gotta cut this tarp down. Can you help me grab the empty boxes so they don’t fly off when the pilot gets here?”
“Yup.” I stand, tugging his hoodie tighter around me as the chill seeps in. My legs feel shaky—whether from the cold, the adrenaline, or him, I can’t quite tell.
We step back out into the rain-soaked clearing, the world around us quiet but raw with energy.
The radio crackles, the pilot’s voice cutting through. “Storm’s cleared over here. I’ll be leaving in a few minutes.”
Just like that, the storm—and whatever urge Gabe may have had to break his own rule—fades as quickly as it came.