Chapter 8
Clementine
“Okay,” I say, “hear me out. I know we decided that OnlyFans was off the table, but maybe some lonely guy out there has a fetish for bruised and battered ballerina feet.”
Gran bustles around the kitchen, humming over her kettle, washing blackberries and trimming flower stems. Grandpa used to trail behind her, picking up the fallen leaves and prepping the tea. This house is not the same without him, but the domesticity these days is disarming.
“Only if you charge extra for the bunion.”
“You laugh, but someone out there is going to treasure these puppies.” I crack my feet and lean into a hamstring stretch, head bent, arms loose.
“You keep telling yourself that, doll.”
My body aches to move. I swing my left leg up the wall and settle into a wall split. My lower back protests immediately, but I breathe through it. God, I’m stiff. Alaska is going to murder my turnout.
“The things I would do if I could lift my leg that high.”
I glance over to find Gran eyeing me like I’m a piece of art she might put in the foyer.
“Gran!”
She just laughs and tosses a kitchen towel at my head. “What, you get to talk about OnlyFans, but I’m the one who needs a censor?”
“Yes!” I yelp, dodging the cloth missile and switching legs. My hip lifts, then—crack, like a glow stick. I fold forward anyway, my forehead pressed to the wall, groaning like a martyr.
There’s a knock at the door.
“You expecting anyone?” I ask.
“Maybe Gerri is stopping by to swap zinnias.”
Gran disappears down the hall. I keep breathing through the hip stretch-slash-torture, convincing myself that pain is just weakness leaving the body, or whatever those Instagram yoga teachers say.
“Clem, dear? It’s for you,” Gran calls.
A man clears his throat.
I jolt, almost tipping sideways out of my split, and my hip locks in place with an audible pop. Ow.
Alec stands in my grandmother’s kitchen.
All he does is look at me. Tall and unsmiling in a Henley, a navy buff holding back too-long brown hair. His pupils widen, then shrink. He doesn’t say a word. I am, however, still halfway up the wall in a full split.
His gaze flicks over me—neck to toe, toe to neck—like it can’t decide where it’s safest to land. Like I’ve reminded him of a thought he’s spent years shoving into a locked box.
“Alec,” I breathe, and when I try to move, my hip joint refuses to cooperate. Which means I am stuck. Utterly, humiliatingly stuck. “Uh, did my grandmother’s muffins change your mind?” I jut my chin up and cross my arms like standing split in half in front of a man is extremely normal.
His expression barely twitches. “Are you just going to stay like that?”
“Yes.” My voice comes out breezy even though my hip screams for mercy. The stack of papers in his hand crinkles, and I nod toward it. “Do you have a problem with that?”
A flicker of “Oh god, what am I doing?” crosses his face before he sighs and holds the papers out to me.
“No.”
“Are you planning to sue me?” I eye the perfectly aligned stack of papers in his hand. A vein spasms between his tanned knuckles. I nearly pant at the sight. His hands are absolutely gorgeous.
“What for?”
Reluctantly, I tear my gaze back up to meet his eyes.
“The breaking and entering.” I pivot my weight to take them—another clack, and my hip finally releases. I drop to the floor, landing on two feet like a normal mortal woman.
“Not today,” he says and stretches out the stack to me.
I square my shoulders like I’m at the barre and try to exude confidence. Sure, he’s rejected me two times at this point, but now he’s here.
My jaw drops open as I scan the top of the first page. CLEMENTINE’S TRAINING SCHEDULE.
My heart kicks. “Does this mean—?”
“I’ve outlined everything down to the minute.”
Not just that, but the thing is color-coded and broken down by week, the kind of obsessive detail that would make a New York City Ballet director salivate.
My shifts at Got Wood? are slotted neatly at the top of each day, followed by strength sets, kayak mileage, elevation goals, recovery stretches, meal suggestions, and sleep hours.
He even included the daily sunrise and sunset times down to the minute, which sort of feels cute and tender and sweet all at the same time. A warm feeling ribbons inside my stomach. The same one I had when I walked in on him shirtless drilling that bed frame on Sunday.
I shouldn’t be thinking about that at all. I should be celebrating or gloating or twirling into another wall split, because Alec Hastings is going to be my Wild Trails partner.
“I have to ask, how do you know my work schedule?” I narrow my eyes. “Have you been following me?”
“I called the store and asked.”
Right. Duh.
I gape at him. “You realize that’s—what’s the word—stalker-adjacent?”
“Guess we’re both committing crimes,” he says, like he’s bored of this conversation.
The stupid warmth inside of me starts to steam. I force my stare back onto the tome of training plans. The more I pore over everything, the more I realize that he’s a control freak. But I can work with that. Especially if it means winning.
“As you pointed out, I need help with the lodge.” He taps the top page, fingertip resting there like it’s casual. I should be looking at what he’s pointing to, but—
Ink steals my attention. His left sleeve is a mountain range, all sharp peaks and dark pines, a waterfall spilling into a winding river.
A compass hides under his watch. My eyes flick to the other arm—eight black bands circle his forearm, neat and even, like tally marks or warnings.
Above them, a coiled rope snakes around his bicep, vanishing under fabric.
The itch to roll his sleeve up and see where it ends is immediate and entirely unhelpful.
“We have exactly twenty-five days until the qualifying round.” His voice snaps me back.
“Twenty-five,” I echo, like I wasn’t just mentally undressing him so I could see his tattoos.
“You’ll see I’ve marked the days you’ll be at the lodge.” He flips the page toward me, all business. “Main rooms done by September second. The rest finished before the race ends. If you can make it feel like a home—something people want to stay in—then when we win, you keep the prize money.”
My head jerks up. “Excuse me? When we win?”
“That’s the deal. Payment for the decorating.”
A giddy spark zips through me, I almost laugh. I want to scream. I want to kiss him. Better yet, I want to scream while kissing him.
Before I can pick which impulse to follow, Gran’s voice blasts down the hall.
“Oh, good! The pair of you finally found your way to each other. Now you can make some strong, healthy babies.”
I choke. Alec blinks. The stack of papers wobbles dangerously in my hands.
“What?” she says, utterly unbothered. “Look at him. Those shoulders! You’re welcome, Clementine.”
And before I can stop her, she continues on. “Even all those years ago, this little one was a looker, just like your grandpa.” She turns to Alec. “I told Bill she’d be catching someone’s attention someday. Good to see it’s yours, young man.”
Alec clears his throat and becomes fascinated by his boots, like they might sprout wings if he stares hard enough. Meanwhile, I can feel my face going full heirloom tomato.
“Don’t mind her,” I whisper, leaning closer. “Eighty-seven years old. No boundaries.”
“I heard that!” Gran yells back.
I shut my eyes, mortified. “She has bionic hearing,” I mutter.
His mouth twitches like he’s fighting a grin.
I flip back to the papers, desperate for cover. “We’ve got a deal, Hastings. And for the record, I’m a deeply devoted student, and I thrive under criticism,” I chirp. “Just ask literally any ballet teacher I’ve ever had.”
“I’ll give you my credit card to buy what you’ll need for the lodge.” He slides a black Amex onto the counter, as casual as tossing a napkin.
My jaw goes slack. My tongue practically hits the floor like a cartoon dog. A black Amex.
“Now, get dressed. We’re already behind on time.”
“Now?” I blink, imagining what sort of limit he has on that thing. “I was going to do barre in the garage first, but—” He gives me the look. “But this is obviously more important,” I finish brightly.
I flip to today’s schedule. We’re supposed to hike a trail in under an hour, then do a Fartlek run, whatever that is. My lungs are preemptively filing a complaint.
“You’ll need to change,” he says, glancing at my leotard and hoodie. “And you need actual hiking boots with ankle support. Trail shoes for the running days.”
It’s the most words I’ve ever heard him string together in one sitting.
“Okay. I used to hike with my grandpa. I might still have some of my old gear. Should I bring snacks?”
“Is it on the schedule?”
I flip through the pages, scanning for snack protocol. “No.” I frown. “But—”
“I’ll see you at the lodge in fifteen.”
And just like that, he turns and walks out.
Behind me, Gran slips back into the kitchen, smug as a cat in a birdcage. “You should wear that leotard more often.”
“Don’t be gross.”
“Seemed like he wanted to climb you like Denali.”
I groan, glancing back down at the training schedule, my name printed neatly at the top.
“Looks like I’m paying off my debt faster than we thought,” I mutter, my heart doing something very, very stupid in my chest.
Gran leans in, eyes glinting. “Better make sure you finish your stretches before your…training. Wouldn’t want to pull anything.”
She winks. I tuck the schedule under my arm and head for my apartment above the garage. Hiking boots. Trail shoes. Possibly a will. Because if Alec’s plan doesn’t kill me physically, the way he looked at me in that kitchen just might.
And yet, as I shut my front door, I’m smiling.