"I don't know what I'm supposed to?—"
"Figure it out," Shane says, already turning away to help a group trying to move a fallen tree.
I stand there, vest in hand, feeling like the new kid at school, except everyone else is actually doing important things while I'm just taking up space. I reluctantly slip on the vest, which probably costs less than my socks.
"You! Vest guy!" a voice calls out. "Make yourself useful and help with this lumber!"
I turn toward the voice and feel something shift in the universe.
She stands in the bed of a pickup truck, her dark hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. Sweat glistens on her forehead, and there's a smudge of dirt across one cheek. She wears work boots, jeans with actual wear, and a tshirt, revealing tanned, toned arms.
"Today would be nice!" she calls again when I don't immediately move.
I find myself walking toward her truck without consciously deciding to. She's already turning away, directing an elderly couple to take water to the workers clearing debris.
Up close, she's even more striking—not in the contoured, filtered way I'm used to from LA, but in a raw way that makes everything else seem artificial by comparison. She wasn't even trying to look good, but hell if she didn't steal the whole damn scene.
"Here," she says, thrusting a case of water into my arms without really looking at me. "Take these to the guys working on the drainage ditch, pass it out."
"Where's the drainage ditch?" I ask.
This gets her attention. She looks at me fully for the first time, and I watch as recognition flickers across her face—not the usual excitement or awe, but something more like suspicion.
"You're not from around here," she says. It's not a question.
"What gave it away? The fact that I don't know where the drainage ditch is, or the fact that my sunglasses cost more than that truck?"
Her eyes narrow slightly. "The drainage ditch is over there," she says, pointing. "And I don't care what your sunglasses cost."
Before I can respond, Shane appears beside us.
"Grace," he says. "This is Orville's cousin's kid. Blaze. He's helping."
"Blaze?" she repeats, raising an eyebrow. "Like the sports team?"
"Like the verb," I counter. "To burn intensely."
She looks unimpressed. "We don't need a celebrity. We need workers. If you can't carry, clear out."
For possibly the first time since I was sixteen, I find myself speechless. No one's talked to me like that in years. Everyone either wants something from me or is paid to agree with me.
Grace has already turned away, calling out to someone about chainsaws and fallen branches.
"She always this friendly?" I ask Shane.
"Grace Hartman works with Ruby running groceries from the Merc, coordinates emergency response volunteers for the town, and coaches Little League," Shane replies. "She doesn't have time to stoke your ego, especially not today."
"Grace," I repeat. "Fitting."
"Those waters aren't going to deliver themselves," Shane points out.
I consider dropping the case right there and walking back to the truck. But something about the dismissive way Grace looked at me—like I was just useless baggage—lights a fire under my ass.
I carry the water to the drainage ditch, where mud-covered men gratefully grab bottles. I return for another case and am given a new location to deliver, and another. By the third trip, my arms are burning and my head is screaming, but I keep going.
An hour passes in a blur of manual labor. I help move debris, pass out supplies, and even hold a first aid kit while a paramedic bandages a volunteer's cut hand. No one asks for my autograph. No one takes selfies. They just nod thanks and keep working.
At some point, I find myself working alongside Grace, both of us loading salvaged tools into a pickup. We work in tense silence, me sneaking glances at her focused profile.
