Uprooted

Chapter 23

CHAPTER 23

O ne whole week has dragged by since Gabe’s accident, and things between us feel… off. Not in a dramatic way, just quieter. The usual banter that we’ve been brokering between us? Barely there. The easy back-and-forth tinged with a hint of flirtation? Gone. When he’s not at the block with the crew, he’s either holed up in his SUV nursing his bruised ribs or off coordinating with the other foremen.

And me? I’ve spent way too much time replaying that stupid little kiss I left on his cheek. It was nothing—just a quick, impulsive thing—but what if it wasn’t nothing to him? What if I crossed some invisible line? What if I made things weird?

I don’t want to overthink it. I know I’m overthinking it. It was the smallest, most meaningless kiss ever, but it’s all I can think about.

Tomorrow kicks off our five-day break, the last pause before we wrap up the planting at Shunda and head on to Kananaskis for the rest of the summer. Most of the crew is already itching to leave camp and get back to civilization—half of them have rides lined up to Calgary, Edmonton, or wherever they’re going to blow off steam. Emma asked if I wanted to tag along with her and Rolland on a quick trip to Banff, leaving tomorrow for a few days. It sounds fun—but when I think about it, I hesitate.

I tell myself it’s because I have too much to do—laundry to catch up on, emails to check, job applications to send out. My bank account can’t handle five days of overpriced espresso and tourist traps. But deep down, I know there’s another reason I want to stay behind: Gabe.

I don’t want to admit it—not even to myself—but part of me wonders what it would look like to weave myself into his plans if he decides to stick around. The thought scares me a little, mostly because I’m pretty sure he doesn’t want that.

Finally, after what feels like the longest day of the season, we haul ourselves back to camp. The truck rattles to a stop near the tents, and we all stumble out with stiff backs and tired arms.

I look at Dan, wincing at his puffy, red eyelid—something I hadn’t even noticed during the whole ride home. “What happened to you?”

He grumbles a curse and shakes his head. “Wasps. The little bastards were nesting in a mound, and I shoved my shovel right into their nest. They went ballistic, and one got me on the eyelid.”

“Ouch,” I say softly, shuddering a bit. “That’s rough.”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” he mutters. “I thought the final scramble of closing up the block was bad enough, but then I got stung. And now it feels like my eye’s about to explode.”

I rub my neck, remembering how I ended up replanting about fifty J-roots in someone else’s section because we were rushing to get done for our big break. “A rough day all around. At least we’re done with the spring stock of trees, though, right?”

“Yep. No more planting for a week until the summer trees arrive,” he sighs in relief. With a stiff nod, Dan moves on toward his tent, one hand still cradling his sore eyelid.

I exhale, letting the tension in my shoulders slide a bit. Despite the exhaustion—and his wasp debacle—it’s nice to remember that none of us plants alone for long. On days like today, we genuinely rely on each other to push through.

After dumping my gear, I stumble to the mess tent for dinner. The cook—a saint, by my measure—has served curry and rice tonight, the kind of meal that revitalizes tired limbs and battered spirits. I load a plate, then sink down at a table where Emma and Rolland are already eating. Emma nods in greeting, too drained herself to say much beyond a sleepy grunt of acknowledgement.

“Hey,” I manage, poking at the curry with a fork. My throat’s still dry from dust and sweat. “Quite a day, huh?”

Emma lifts her gaze, dark circles under her eyes. “Total mayhem. I’m exhausted. You?”

“Same,” I say, rolling my neck. “And poor Dan got stung right in the eyelid. He looks like a pirate.”

She grimaces. “God, that sucks. Bet that was when we were finishing up. It was chaos out there—saw at least five double plants, probably more.”

“That’s what he said,” I agree.

Eventually, Dan joins us at the table, balancing his plate in one hand. He looks around, then drops onto the bench with a groan. “Ugh, I can barely chew,” he announces, spearing a chunk of curry. “Eye’s throbbing like crazy.”

Emma sets down her fork, leaning forward. “You should put some ice on it. It’s getting pretty swollen.”

He just shrugs. “It’ll be fine. I’ll just keep an eye on it.” Then he realizes what he’s said and lets out a snort. “Sorry, bad pun.” Then he pulls a can of Mountain Crest beer out of his pocket and holds it to his eye. “This ought to do the trick!”

We all manage a tired chuckle and spend the rest of dinner discussing plans for the five-day break.

As I head to take my first shower in two days, I’m reminded of how tree planting makes even the simplest things—like warm water and soap—feel like pure luxury. And let me tell you, the “Shower Trailer” is far from fancy. It’s a converted flat-deck trailer with eight narrow stalls, all made from the same vinyl fabric as the rest of the tents. The plumbing? It’s basic as hell. Pipes and showerheads are literally strapped to the frame with red twine, and the heater only works when it feels like it.

The first spray of hot water against my skin is pure bliss. For five minutes, I let it wash away the grime and tension of the day. But just as I’m starting to enjoy it, the heater sputters and the water goes lukewarm, then cold—then freezing. I finish quickly, wringing out my hair and muttering under my breath as I step out, wrapping a towel around myself. That’s when I realize my mistake. Dammit, Soleil, you wore your muddy clothes here. I’m not putting them back on. Not a chance.

I tighten my towel and grab my toiletries, bolting across camp in flip-flops that smack against the dirt road. The chilly air raises goose bumps along my skin as I dive into my tent, shivering while I toss my stuff onto my sleeping bag.

I yank out a clean pair of underwear, wiggling into them as fast as humanly possible. My wet hair sticks to my shoulders as I grab my leggings and start pulling them up over my knees, wrestling them over my damp skin. They cling stubbornly, forcing me to arch my back awkwardly as I tug them into place. The constant rustling of the sleeping bag beneath me makes everything sound louder than it is.

The towel slips from my chest, leaving me exposed to the biting air. I scramble to pull it back up, but my hands are busy tugging at my leggings that won’t stop sticking to my wet skin. Please, please, please don’t let anyone walk by right now, I beg silently, glancing at the open vestibule door that I was in too much of a hurry to shut.

Finally, the leggings snap into place, and I let out a relieved sigh. My head falls back against the sleeping bag just as?—

“Hey, I’ve got something to?—”

My head snaps toward the open flap, my heart freezing mid-beat. Gabe is crouched at the entrance, peering inside like this is just a normal conversation. His words cut off abruptly, his mouth hanging open as his eyes lock on me.

“ Gabe! ” I shriek, grabbing the towel and yanking it over my chest. “What the hell?! Get out of here!”

He stumbles back like I’ve shoved him, his hands flying up in defence. “Shit! I—I didn’t know! Why are you naked?!”

“Because I just came back from the shower!” I snap, clutching the towel tighter around me. “Why are you walking into my tent?!”

“I wasn’t walking in!” he protests, his face blazing red. “I was knocking—or, well, calling out—and why the hell isn’t your flap closed?”

“Because I was in a hurry, Gabe! I didn’t have time to zip it!” I hiss, gesturing wildly at my sleeping bag. “And clearly, I didn’t hear you over all the noise!”

I can’t see him from where I’m lying in the tent, but I hear him curse, like that’ll erase what he just saw. “Maybe don’t leave your door open next time?”

“Are you seriously lecturing me right now?” I interrupt, incredulous. “You just barged in here and saw me half-naked, and now it’s my fault?”

“I wasn’t barging!” he says, his voice cracking slightly. I hear him move closer to the tent, and panic sets in as I clutch the towel tighter around myself. Then, in one smooth motion, the zipper on my vestibule pulls down. He’s closing it—giving me privacy. How thoughtful .

I exhale sharply, forcing myself to focus on getting dressed. I pull on a plain white cotton shirt and a vest, something that feels cozy and covers me up enough to shake off the lingering awkwardness. Knowing he’s already seen my breasts has me feeling a little exposed, but not entirely in a bad way.

Because deep down? Part of me is enjoying this. Enjoying that he saw me topless. Enjoying how completely flustered it made him. And, as I sit there, pulling my damp hair into a loose braid, I can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking right now. God, I wish I could read his mind.

“Damn it, Soleil, I’m sorry! I just… I had something to show you. We can still see it if you hurry up,” he says, his voice tight. “I’ll wait by my truck.”

“Fine. Give me a minute,” I mutter, pulling on my socks.

When I step out of my tent, Gabe is leaning against his SUV, his head tilted back like he’s taking deep breaths. His shoulders are tense, and he shakes his head every now and then, like he’s trying to reset himself.

“You decent now?” he calls, his tone wobbling between casual and awkward.

“Very,” I say, folding my arms and giving him a pointed look.

He glances at me, his gaze lingering for a second too long before flicking away. His cheeks are still faintly red.

“You okay, Gabe?” I ask, my tone taking on a teasing edge. “You look… tense.”

His jaw tightens, and he clears his throat. “My ribs still hurt.”

“You sure it’s your ribs?” I smirk. “Relax, Gabe. It’s not like I haven’t seen you shirtless before. Consider us even.”

He glares at me, his blush deepening. “Not even close,” he grumbles, but there’s no bite to it—just a man caught completely off guard.

“Now, what was so important you needed to barge into my tent?” I ask breezily, motioning toward his truck.

Without a word, he gestures for me to get in the vehicle and heads for the driver’s seat, his movements stiff. I follow, biting back a grin. Gabe—Mr. Calm and Collected—is completely rattled. And for once, he’s the one scrambling to recover.

He starts the engine, and we rumble out of camp. The early-evening light spills through the windshield, highlighting the hard angle of his jaw and the faint colour still blooming across the cut on his forehead. He’s already so damn gorgeous, but being injured has taken his hotness factor up tenfold.

For five straight minutes, neither of us speaks. It’s not exactly tense, but there’s a charge to the silence, like we’re both trying to find the right words. I occasionally glance his way, catching his perfect profile and the way his fingers tighten on the steering wheel.

Finally, he eases off the gas, the truck coasting as the road flattens. He’s so quiet that when his voice breaks the silence, it makes me jump a little. “Look out your window.”

I shift in my seat and peer out through the glass. The sunlight angles through a wall of tall pine trees. He lowers my window, and as I turn my head a little more, my breath catches. Three tiny bear cubs are clinging to the trunk of a towering pine tree, their little bodies wiggling as they climb higher. Their fur glistens slightly in the fading light, and the smallest one lets out a squeaky little cry that tugs at my heart.

“Oh my God,” I whisper, my voice filled with awe. “They’re so cute.”

“Yeah, they are. So cute until we find them at camp looking for handouts.”

“Good thing there’s a bear fence around camp.”

“You really think that flimsy little wire, barely putting out any voltage, is gonna keep three curious cubs and their pissed-off mama away? Doubt it. But hopefully, all the noise will scare her off—so she doesn’t end up getting shot.”

“Shot? Like with a gun?”

“No, Soleil, like with a camera.” He gives me a look. “Yes, a gun. We had to shoot one my first year because it kept coming back.”

“Oh, that’s awful. For the bear, I mean. Sucks there’s not a better way to keep them away from camp.”

“It doesn’t happen often… but yeah, we get the odd visitor.” He shrugs. “Not too worried about this mama, though. If she’s telling her cubs to climb, she’s already spooked by humans.”

“How did you even know they’d be here?”

He settles more comfortably in the driver’s seat, letting his hands rest lightly on the wheel. “One of the tree haulers radioed me,” he explains. “Said he scared the cubs off the road while he was heading to clean up caches”—he nods toward the tall conifer where the furry little ones huddle— “and figured you’d want to see this. I haven’t seen the mama bear yet, but she’s probably roaming around close by. You probably don’t see wildlife like this back home.”

I catch the way he glances at me after saying that, and a gentle warmth unfurls in my chest. Of all the people he could have shown this to, he brought me . I’m not sure what to make of the feeling—whether it’s just feeling grateful or something deeper—but it’s enough to make me feel like there’s something more between us that’s blooming. And it’s not just about the bears, I realize. He’s watching my reaction, gauging how I respond, and the fact that he cares, that he’s even thinking of me in this way, makes me wonder if I got everything I was feeling this week wrong about him. He isn’t walling me off, he’s letting me in.

I keep watching out the window, my heart swelling as the smallest cub scrambles to climb higher, its tiny claws scraping at the rough bark. “Gabe, this is unbelievable. Totally worth the show you got earlier,” I tease.

He chuckles softly, and the warmth of that sound settles over me. “You sure? Kinda seems like you got the raw end of that deal, Sunshine.” I turn to face him, ready with a retort, but I don’t realize how close he’s leaning over the console to see out my window until it’s too late.

My lips brush against his cheek—soft and fleeting against his light stubble. I hear his breath hitch like he’s worried breathing might break this moment between us. It’s like everything stopped.

Finally, he exhales, and as his head turns slightly, lining up his mouth to mine, his lips graze the corner, so faint it feels like a question. My breath hitches, my body tensing as if I’m bracing for something I’ve wanted for a long time.

And then he stops.

For a second, I wonder if he’s waiting for permission—or maybe for me to pull away—but I don’t. Instead, I tilt my face toward his, so our lips are a paper-thin line apart, my chest rising and falling in time with his shallow breaths.

“Gabe…” I whisper, my voice barely audible.

And that’s all it takes.

He closes the distance, his lips brushing against mine softly at first, like he’s testing the waters. But when I don’t pull away, it deepens. His hand lifts, cradling the side of my face, his thumb grazing my cheek with a tenderness that makes my knees weak, even though I’m sitting down.

The kiss is warm, deliberate, and unhurried, like he’s savouring every second of it. My hands move instinctively, one clutching the edge of my seat, the other hovering near his arm as if I need to ground myself somehow.

The tension that’s been building for weeks melts away in the heat of the moment, but it doesn’t disappear—it shifts, turning into something more, something electrifying.

For a moment, there’s no truck, no bears, no forest—just him. The way his lips move against mine, the soft scrape of stubble on my skin, the taste of his mouth on mine—sweet, minty, familiar.

And then, slowly, he pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against mine, our breath mingling in the quiet cab. His eyes flutter open, locking onto mine, and the look makes my chest tighten all over again.

“That was…” He’s about to finish but is cut off by the low hum of an approaching quad. The noise cuts through the moment like a cold splash of water.

We spring apart, both of us jerking back into our seats as the quad rolls up alongside the SUV. My heart is hammering so loud I’m sure Gabe can hear it.

The quad comes to a stop, and the rider kills the engine. It’s James—grinning like always, completely oblivious to the charged energy that’s now suffocating the vehicle.

I press myself against the passenger door, pretending to focus out the window, like the cubs are the most fascinating thing in the world. But my mind is spinning, thinking about that heart-palpating kiss.

We just kissed. And the echo of it still lingers on my lips—soft, hungry, and impossible to shake. I glance at Gabe out of the corner of my eye. His knuckles are white on the steering wheel, his jaw tight, and there’s this stunned look in his eyes.

Gabe clears his throat as he rolls down the window.

“We’ve been trying to reach you on the radio,” James says, sitting casually on the quad.

Gabe’s voice is clipped but calm. “Didn’t bring it. What’s up?”

James rests his forearm on this helmet. “Logan wants you back at camp. Evening meeting about summer block plans since you’re heading to the cabin tomorrow.”

Dang it . Of course, he’s heading out to his cabin for the week—he’s earned a break and probably doesn’t want to stick around camp to get wrangled into more off-duty work. The realization of that settles uncomfortably in my chest, and suddenly, the idea of staying back at camp feels a lot lonelier.

Gabe nods. “Got it. I’ll head back soon.”

“Checking out the cubs?” James asks, shifting on his quad to peek over the top of the car at them, still clinging on.

“Yup,” Gabe and I chime in at the same time, our voices overlapping awkwardly.

Smooth.

James raises an eyebrow, clearly picking up on the weird energy, but doesn’t say anything. He glances at me, his grin widening. “Oh hey, Soleil—are you sticking around camp during the break? We need a few extra hands to help unload the reefer when the trees show up.”

I open my mouth to answer, but before I can say a word, Gabe cuts in. “She’s not. She’s coming with me. I promised I’d take her fishing.”

Wait, what?

I freeze, my head snapping toward Gabe, but he’s as calm as ever.

James just shrugs, sliding his helmet back on. “Sounds fun. See you both back at camp.”

The quad roars to life, kicking up a cloud of dust as James peels off down the road, leaving us sitting in the cab with nothing but the hum of the engine and the weight of what just happened.

Gabe rolls up the window, his fingers drumming against the steering wheel as if he’s working up the nerve to say something. Finally, he speaks. “I’m leaving tomorrow morning, early,” he says, his voice low, almost hesitant. He glances at me, his jaw tightening before adding, “Do you want to come with me? It’s not fancy—just a small kitchen, a hot shower, good fishing.”

I blink at him, caught off guard.

“There’s Ram Falls, just a short drive from here—perfect spot at sunrise. And the creek’s just a short walk from our back deck. It’s crystal clear, great for fly-fishing. I’ll even teach you if you’ve never tried.” His eyes flick to mine briefly, his voice softening. “C’mon, it’ll be fun. Let me show you my favourite parts of Alberta.”

The idea of spending a few days alone with Gabe, away from camp, away from everything—it feels dangerous.

“Why?” I ask, my voice quieter than I intended.

He shrugs, his grip tightening slightly on the wheel. “Because it’d be nice to have some company.”

Doesn’t feel the same when you’re alone —I remember those words he said one night while he caught me stargazing.

My thoughts are a mess of reasons to say no. This is a bad idea. We’re already toeing a line that could screw everything up. But then I think about the way he makes me laugh, the way his stories pull me in, the way he manages to make even the worst days out here feel lighter.

“Okay,” I say finally. “I’d love that.”

Oh, Soleil. You are so screwed.

As I head back to my tent for the night, still buzzing from that kiss, I spot Emma perched in her own tent entrance, writing in her journal. She looks up and waves me over, so I settle onto the grass by her tent flap.

“Soleil,” she says, closing her journal partway. “Are you sure you don’t want to come with us to Banff? Word is they’re making the planters that stick around unload the next batch of trees from the reefer. Trust me—you do not want to get roped into that.”

“Actually, I’m not staying,” I say, trying to sound casual. “I’ve got plans to go… somewhere else.”

She narrows her eyes. “Somewhere else?”

“Gabe’s cabin,” I blurt out. Then I quickly change the subject. “What’re you writing in your journal?”

“Don’t even,” she sneers good-naturedly. “Gabe’s cabin? I knew it.”

I can’t stop the blush from creeping up my cheeks, so I just laugh. Might as well confess everything that went down in his SUV. I’ve already told her about our random moments—like the cheek peck, the helicopter ride—because honestly, I’ve needed her sanity check more than once.

“So,” she goes on, smirking, “you are gonna get your mound pounded, just not in his SUV. I called it, didn’t I?”

I roll my eyes. “He’s taking me fishing.”

She snorts. “Sure. Fishing. I highly doubt that’s all you two will be doing. I’m not saying he’s planning on seducing you in the middle of nowhere—but if you do get a chance to see that man naked? Take it.”

I exhale, cheeks on fire. “I just don’t want to complicate things.”

She levels me with a look. “Too late. The second he kissed you, things got complicated.”

She’s right, of course. It already feels like everything has shifted. A spark that was flickering before is definitely flaming now.

“You’re both adults,” she says, waving her pen around for emphasis. “It can go two ways: a summer hookup, or maybe something more. A lot of people meet tree planting and end up together.”

“That’s not really what I’m worried about,” I admit quietly.

She shrugs. “Then what’s got you freaked out?”

I bite my lip. “If we break it off and things get complicated, I’m still stuck with him as my foreman.”

“It’s Gabe,” she says firmly. “He doesn’t take chances unless he’s sure they’re worth it. Which means he’s not just after a fling.”

I scoff, half trying to convince myself. “We’re just… fishing.” Even as I say it, I know I’m lying. Because if he kisses me again, I doubt I’ll hold back.

Emma rolls her eyes and grins. “Sure, Soleil. Whatever you need to tell yourself. But promise me you’ll spare no details on how you caught that big fish,” she says, while holding her hands eight inches apart.