For a moment, she just stood there, admiring the careful rows of gear the same way some people admired art. It was… unexpectedly intimate. Watching someone appreciate your work. Your order. Your way of calming the world around you.
And something inside me wanted to step closer.
But I didn’t.
I couldn’t.
“Okay,” she said suddenly, clapping her hands to break the moment. “Work time. Focus. Business. No feelings allowed.”
I blinked. “Were there feelings entangled with the tents and cast iron?”
She froze. “No. I mean…no. None. I don’t have those.”
“You don’t have feelings.”
“Correct.”
I lifted an eyebrow.
“Fine,” she muttered. “I have them. But I ignore them. Like a professional.”
“Interesting approach.”
“It works for me. I try not to get too attached to my gear in case it falls down a cliff or washes away in a river.”
“Does that happen often?”
“Often enough.”
“I’ll have to remember that.”
She grabbed the clipboard as if it were a life raft. “Moving on. Let’s talk tents.”
She spun toward the wall of packable tents and nearly tripped again.
I stepped forward without thinking, steadying her by the elbow.
She inhaled sharply.
I dropped my hand immediately as heat rushed up my arms from where I’d touched her.
We stood there for half a second too long, close enough to see the flecks of light brown in her eyes.
Close enough to feel the tension between us like a crackle of static.
She cleared her throat and stepped back. “Right. Yes. Tents. We need a lightweight two-person for the honeymoon couple.”
“Yes,” I said quietly. “We do.”
She nodded. “And a three-person backup, just in case.”
“For what?”
“Um… spontaneous arguing? Snoring incompatibility? Newlyweds sometimes need space.”
I almost smiled again. “You plan for everything.”
She shrugged. “Someone has to.”
