Chapter 35
CHAPTER 35
B y the time Gabe pulls the truck onto the dusty road back to camp, my legs feel like dead weight from planting all day. But honestly, what’s hitting harder is knowing I’m getting on a plane to Montreal in two days.
Gabe’s hand, as usual, rests on my thigh while he steers with the other. He’s got this habit of driving one-handed, and I’ve gotten used to the way his fingers drum absently against my leg. This evening, though, his grip is tighter, like he’s physically trying to hold me here, to tether me to this place for just a little while longer. I lean my head back, taking in the last glimpse of the sunlight over the cut blocks.
It hits me that this is the last time I’ll see them like this—as a tree planter. This place tore me down, pushed me past every limit I thought I had, and somehow built me back up in ways I never expected.
I thought I’d be counting the seconds until I was done, ready to leave it all behind, but now, as the truck rumbles down the road, all I feel is this quiet ache in my chest. After today, tree planting won’t be my reality anymore—it’ll just be something I did once, a season that changed me. And no matter where I go next, a part of me will always be out here, in the dirt, in the trees, in the version of myself I found along the way.
When we roll into camp, I’m expecting everyone to pile out, rushing for showers or the mess tent to grab dinner—but there’s a definite buzz in the air. Tonight’s the big party, and it seems like every conversation is circling back to costumes or who scored the most ridiculous thrift-store finds.
Gabe cuts the engine, turns in his seat with this cheeky grin, and says, “Alright, nobody move. I’ve got a surprise.”
I give him a look, like, what are you up to? but he just winks. Classic Gabe.
We all clamber out, and he hauls a small cooler out of the truck bed, cracking it open to hand out beers. When he waves one at me, I raise an eyebrow.
“Okay, what’s going on?”
Gabe’s grin stretches even wider. “You remember how you completely blew it the first time you tried to shotgun a beer?”
The crew’s already hyped, and Gabe, not one to shy away from a good show, steps into the centre, holding up a can. “We’re doing this properly,” he says, flicking open his pocketknife. He punctures a hole near the bottom of the can, foam spraying everywhere as he laughs and wipes his hand on his pants. Then he passes the knife around.
The buzz of excitement grows as everyone jabs their cans, beer fizzing over dirty fingers. By the time the knife gets to me, my hands are shaky, but I manage to poke the can without totally drenching myself.
Gabe lifts his can, eyes gleaming. “Alright, we’re going to do one last boat race for Soleil. Emma, Jake—we’re on this side. Dan, Rolland, and Soleil are here. Whichever team finishes first wins.” We all line up into two separate lines, cans tilted. “Ready? One… two… three!”
Emma and Dan face off first, and it’s chaos—foam flying, people laughing, cheering on their teammates. Dan finishes first, slamming his empty can down with a triumphant grunt. Rolland cracks his tab and starts chugging, but ends up sputtering, coughing beer down his chin. Emma powers through next, finishing with a gasp, while Jake takes over, tipping his head back like he’s inhaling the beer instead of drinking it. He crushes his can at the exact same moment as Rolland, leaving just Gabe and me in a final showdown.
I fumble with the tab, my fingers slipping before I finally manage to crack it open. The beer rushes into me, cold and carbonated, burning down my throat as I chug, laser-focused on the task. Gabe’s drinking just as fast beside me, his Adam’s apple bobbing with each swallow. The group is shouting now, hyping us up, but I barely hear them—I’m too locked in, too determined not to lose.
With one last gulp, I slam my can down a second after Gabe, gasping for air. Laughter erupts around us, my own spilling out between breaths, my stomach aching from the mix of beer and adrenaline. I lost, but barely.
He’s watching me, and there’s that look in his eyes—pride. Around us, the crew is cheering and slapping high-fives left and right. Someone yanks me into a sweaty hug, and I can’t stop grinning. For a moment, everything’s just… right.
We’re sticky with beer and covered in dirt from head to toe after working all day—but it doesn’t matter. This is what it’s all about—celebrating the grind, the grit, and the fact that we’ve been through it all together. It hits me how much I’m going to miss this.
After a few minutes, the energy starts to ebb. Everyone peels off, but Gabe lingers. He’s been quiet, and I glance down to see his hand reaching for mine.
“Hey,” he murmurs, voice lower now. “Can you stick around for a sec?”
I nod, letting him lead me to the side of the dusty crew truck. He reaches into his back pocket, pulling out a small, rectangular box. My heart thumps, because I have no idea what to expect.
“Your birthday’s coming up,” he murmurs, his usual confidence giving way to nerves. “And I won’t be with you to celebrate, so…” He opens the box, and I see the polished gleam of a pocketknife blade. There’s an inscription etched onto it:
You’ll always be my Sunshine. – Gabe .
He hands me the knife, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s suddenly shy. “Use it for fieldwork… or, you know, to poke holes in the bottom of your beer cans when you give your coworkers a masterclass in shotgunning beer.”
I snort, shaking my head.
He drawls the words with a mischievous glint in his eye, “You can take the girl out of the bush, but you can’t take the bush out of the girl.”
When I first set eyes on Gabe, I had these grand, starry-eyed notions of a typical Albertan man—one of those romance-novel types who’d ride in on a white horse, tip his hat, and offer to lug my gear. But let me tell you, that is not Gabe. He’s polite in this wonderfully rugged, bushman way. He’s also the type who’d peel the hoodie off his back—literally—when you’re freezing your ass off. Through every challenge, he’s been there, my solid rock, never flinching, never letting me down. Sure, he doesn’t tip his hat and call me “ma’am,” but he’s still more of a gentleman than any hero I ever fantasized about in those books. In his own down-and-dirty, bushman way, he’s become my personal Western romance—no white horse required. And I’m not ashamed to admit I love that about him.
My breath catches in my throat, and my eyes start to sting with the threat of tears. The day has already been so emotional—finishing my time here, the crew celebrating, the final clusterfuck in which everyone had my back. Now this, an unexpected gift that hits me straight in the chest. I’m overwhelmed by how thoughtful he is.
I glance up, and Gabe’s watching my reaction nervously, like he’s trying to read what I’m thinking. That’s when the tears really threaten to spill over, because this is too much—the new job I’m flying off to soon, the uneasy promise I made to my parents not to get my heart broken, and the very real truth that I might have gone and broken that promise a thousand times over.
Wordlessly, I throw my arms around him, and his arms loop around my waist. He presses me to his chest, one hand smoothing over my hair in silent comfort. I’m not sure if he can tell I’m crying—my face is buried against his shirt, and the night air is cool enough to mask my tears. But I hear his soft exhale, feel the steady beat of his heart, and for a second, it’s just the two of us.
Eventually, I manage to tilt my head back, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Thank you,” I whisper, voice trembling. “For… for everything.”
Gabe’s expression is just as raw, sadness and warmth colliding in his eyes. He cups my jaw gently, his thumb grazing my cheek. It’s like he wants to say something but can’t find the words. I see it all there, unspoken: He doesn’t want me to leave .
I let out a dramatic sigh as I slip the knife into the pocket of my hoodie. “Guess I’m a real planter now that I’ve completed my initiation properly.”
He offers a smile—that soft, almost wistful smile that’s been driving me crazy since the day I arrived on the block. “Yup,” he murmurs, voice teasing. “But you’re still a rookie.”
And I know—no matter how many miles stretch between us after tomorrow, he’ll carry a piece of me, and I’ll carry him, etched into my life like that inscription on the hilt. You’ll always be my Sunshine. It’s as terrifying as it is beautiful, because walking away might just break both of our hearts.
By eight p.m., camp is absolutely buzzing. A group of planters are busy stacking empty white tree boxes into a makeshift pyramid on the big gravel pad—an ambitious structure meant to become tonight’s blazing centerpiece. Others drag folding chairs around the soon-to-be mega bonfire, calling dibs on the best spot to watch the flames take off. Thank God it’s been a wet summer. No fire ban is stopping us from going all out with this massive box-fire.
Emma stands by the towering box pyramid, her already-crumpled wings hanging off her shoulders, a daisy chain perched in her hair, and a flowy little summer dress that clings tight at the bust before falling loose around her hips. She clutches a six-pack of off-brand beer—making her look like she’s every bit the mischievous forest sprite I’d imagined.
Logan strolls towards her in his tacky and very flammable polyester suit, collar so stiff, it’s nearly stabbing him in the cheeks. Gabe is with him, a dingy bedsheet half-draped over his body, cinched at the waist with a braided rope of pink flagging tape in a questionable attempt at a toga. It’s definitely too short for his build, showing off strong, thick thighs dusted with light hair. He looks totally out of place—and yet, somehow, ridiculously sexy.
And then there’s me in my cowgirl getup: cut-off shorts, almost too-tight shirt, pink cowboy hat, and the amazing chaps I found in the thrift store for five bucks. A plastic sheriff’s star is pinned to my shirt above my breast for good measure.
Gabe spots me and gives a low whistle as I walk up to him. “I think that little sheriff’s badge really pulls it all together,” he says, stepping closer and lowering his voice until only I can hear. “Think you’ll be cuffing me tonight, Sheriff?”
“You wish, toga man. The outfit didn’t come with cuffs…” I trail off, letting my lips curve into a suggestive grin. “But I do have a plot cord I could put to use.”
His brow arches with a wicked glint. “Now you’re talking.”
Kiska waddles by in a denim jacket that’s way too tight, his movements more of an annoyed shuffle than a proud trot, and an old baseball cap perched precariously on his head. Despite his obvious discomfort, the sight is almost too adorable to handle.
A few minutes later, Rolland steps up to the makeshift box pyramid, a flame-tipped stick in hand. A hush falls over the crowd as he raises the torch overhead, grinning like he’s the king of this gravel pit. “Long live tree planters!” he shouts, then lowers the flame to one of the waxy boxes. In a heartbeat, the entire structure bursts into a frenzy of fire, each box catching in a chain reaction until the blaze roars sky-high, spitting sparks like fireworks.
Once it’s properly raging, cheers echo all around, and someone cranks the music from a battered old speaker. Then Dan comes barreling through the crowd, hollering at the top of his lungs, “Centurion in the mess tent! Who’s in?!”
“What’s the Centurion?” I ask, already concerned that whatever it is, it’s probably a very bad idea.
“A drinking game—except there aren’t any winners, just losers,” Emma deadpans, sliding in beside me.
“You’re really selling me here,” I shoot back.
“Oh, don’t be such a party pooper. You only have to toss back a shot of beer every minute for a hundred minutes.” Emma shrugs, like it’s nothing.
Wait a minute. A shot of beer for 100 minutes?
Let’s do the math, shall we?
If you take the standard “shot” volume of around 1.5 ounces of beer each minute for 100 minutes, you’d consume 150 ounces, or the equivalent of 12.5 beers. In 100 minutes.
“Are you insane?” I practically yell, giving her a look like she’s lost her mind.
She links her arm through mine. “C’mon. It’ll be fun. We’ll split it, so we’ll only be half as drunk.”
I cave pretty quickly—let’s be real, it’s impossible to say no to Emma. “Fine,” I sigh, “but only because this is my last party night.”
Thirty minutes in, I’m already feeling it—even though Emma and I are splitting the Centurion by alternating shots. Logan, acting like our sober babysitter, pours our shots—but honestly, he’s mostly here to make sure we don’t end up puking in our hair or wandering off by accident. Emma giggles nonstop between her turns, and every time I look over, I catch Logan watching her like she’s the most adorable, hilarious train wreck he’s ever seen.
Even Jessie’s joined in on the Centurion—shockingly enough—and it’s actually nice to see her let loose for once. Turns out she’s pretty funny when she’s not taking everything so seriously.
Around shot number thirty, I tap out—I’m definitely tipsy but not anywhere near puking, and I’d rather bow out while I still have some semblance of dignity. Emma, of course, is determined to power through, basking in everyone’s cheers as they chant her name.
That’s when Gabe shows up, snatches my pink cowboy hat, and plops it on his head. I burst out laughing—he’s somehow both ridiculous and stupidly hot in that too-short toga and bright-pink cowboy hat.
I feel a moment of hesitation because, honestly, I’m not quite ready to call it a night. It’s my last party, after all. But the pull to spend time with Gabe wins out. When I stand up, my head spins, and Gabe slips an arm around my waist.
“Whoa there, cowgirl,” he teases, shooting me a grin. “Let’s get you to bed.”
I let him guide me away from the raucous circle, our fingers laced together as we head towards his dimly lit Explorer at the edge of camp. And even though part of me still wants to dance under the stars by the firepit, I’d rather spend these fleeting moments with him.
He pops open the hatch of the SUV and we scramble into the back, still laughing breathlessly as I pull him close and kiss him hard. My hands slide up under his toga bedsheet, and I freeze—then snort out a laugh when I realize he’s gone commando.
“You’ve been naked under here this whole time?” I murmur against his lips. “What if there was a strong wind? Or you bent over weird?”
He just grins, unruffled. “I was going for historical accuracy.”
My gaze flicks to the strip of flagging tape around his waist and I let out a half-drunken giggle. “Sure, because neon-pink plastic is super authentic for ancient Greece.”
He ducks his head, pressing a kiss to my jaw. “Okay, fine. I was hoping it’d be… easy access for you.”
Heat flutters through me, and I kiss him again, more urgently this time. My palms wander across his thighs, while his hands find my breasts. The plastic sheriff’s star digs in at an awkward angle, and I wince as he accidentally presses it.
“Oh—shit,” he mutters, concern flickering in his eyes as he tries to soothe the spot. “Sorry, are you okay?”
I bite my lip, turning the moment into something playful. “Kiss it better?”
He smirks, popping the star off my shirt and flicking it aside, where it clatters into some crevice between the seats. Then he leans in, lips brushing softly over my skin in the spot the star was pinned. I let out a soft moan, arching into him as his hands slide around my waist.
With the music pounding faintly outside and the darkness all around us, I lose myself in the pure rush of him, naked and hard under his toga and completely at my mercy.
I wake up sprawled, half naked, on a sleeping bag in the SUV, my head pounding like a jackhammer. Soft daylight seeps in, and all I can manage is a groan. I roll over to see Gabe grinning down at me, a bottle of water in one hand and a smug expression on his face.
“Well, good morning, cowgirl,” he says in a voice entirely too cheerful for the pain in my skull.
I glare at him, immediately regretting every shot of beer that crossed my lips. “Please don’t remind me of the stupidity that was last night.”
He hands me the water. “The Centurion is no joke. And you didn’t even make it to fifty.”
“Did Emma?”
“Oh yeah. She was howling at the moon last night. Or at the shitter. Poor Logan.”
“Poor Logan? Poor me ! I got roped into doing it because of Emma.”
“Hey, you’re a big girl. You can make your own decisions.”
“Don’t lecture me today, please,” I say as I glare at him, but then he laughs—a low, playful sound—and the tension in my chest loosens. It’s moments like this I’ll miss when the season ends and when I get on that plane tomorrow.
Gabe leans in and plants a quick kiss on my forehead. “I’ll grab you some breakfast,” he says softly.
In that moment, with the taste of hangover still on my tongue and the memory of last night’s laughter echoing in my head, I realize just how much I’ve grown to love this motley crew—and that leaving them behind is going to sting like hell.