Something shifts in her expression—a decision made, a calculation completed, a leap of faith taken by a woman who builds her entire existence on measurable outcomes and risk assessments.
She falls.
I catch her easily, her weight nothing in my arms. For a moment, I hold her there, suspended, her back against my heart, her hair brushing my jaw.
"See?" I murmur into her ear, my breath warm against the shell of it. "Trust."
Her pulse hammers visibly at her throat, a rapid flutter beneath that pale, corporate skin that never sees enough sunlight. The tension in her body wants to believe that maybe the world won't collapse if she relinquishes control for thirty seconds.
"Put me down," she whispers, but her voice lacks the conviction that usually accompanies her directives. It's the tone of someone going through the motions of protest while secretly not minding the outcome.
I set her on her feet gently, reluctantly releasing my hold. She immediately smooths down her blouse with brisk, efficient movements, rebuilding her armor of professionalism.
"Next!" Melissa chirps with renewed enthusiasm, apparently interpreting this as a breakthrough moment.
Chad steps up for his turn as the faller, cracking his knuckles with performative confidence. He positions himself at the designated falling spot, then looks at me expectantly, like he's granting me some kind of honor.
I look back at him with the same blank expression I use when someone tries to explain "synergy" to me.
He falls backward, arms crossed over his chest in textbook trust-fall position.
I step aside with deliberate casualness, examining my fingernails as though something fascinating has just appeared beneath them.
He hits the dirt hard, air whooshing from his lungs in an undignified grunt that echoes across the clearing.
"Oops." I examine my fingernails. "Instinct. Thought you were attacking. Warrior reflexes."
Orla's hand flies to her mouth, but not fast enough to completely muffle the sound that escapes, something between a snort and a laugh. Her shoulders begin shaking with the effort of suppressing what is clearly hysterical amusement. The corporate mask slips for just a moment, and I catch a glimpse of genuine, unfiltered delight dancing in her eyes before she turns away, pretending to cough into her fist.
Meanwhile, Chad remains sprawled on the ground like a fallen tree, wheezing pathetically as he tries to remember how lungs work. There's a streak of dirt smeared dramatically across his designer polo, the expensive kind with the little embroidered logo that probably cost more than my entire suit. His carefully styled hair has acquired a light dusting of forest debris, and a small twig has somehow become lodged behind his ear, completing his transformation from corporate hotshot to woodland casualty.
"That's okay!" Melissa maintains aggressive cheerfulness despite the disaster. "Let's try some different exercises!"
Three hours of team building later, we gather at the lodge for cabin assignments.
Melissa consults her clipboard with increasing concern. "There's been a booking error."
"Error?" Orla's manager voice activates immediately. "I confirmed these reservations three weeks ago. I have email documentation?—"
"I know, I'm so sorry." Melissa looks genuinely distressed. "But we had a last-minute group cancellation, and the system got confused, and somehow we're one cabin short."
"Then someone shares."
"All the cabins are already at capacity. Two people per cabin, except—" She checks her clipboard again. "Mr. Thraka's reservation shows he's in Cabin Seven, which is our smallest accommodation. And Ms. Peace, you're listed for Cabin Seven as well."
Orla's eyes narrow with suspicion.
I keep my expression neutral. The booking agent was very understanding after I explained that separating me from Orla would result in severe team cohesion problems. And possibly property damage.
"That's unacceptable," Orla begins. "I'll take alternate arrangements?—"
"There are no alternates," Melissa interrupts gently. "Unless someone wants to sleep in the activity center. Or pitch a tent in the camping area, but it's supposed to rain tonight?—"
"We will manage this challenge with honor," I announce loudly, slapping my chest once for emphasis. The sound echoes across the lodge's main room. "Cabin Seven is more than acceptable. It will serve our purposes well."
Orla turns her head slowly toward me, her expression carefully controlled but her eyes blazing with barely suppressed fury. The look she gives me is sharp enough to cut steel, a silent promise of elaborate and creative retribution that will be delivered at the most inconvenient moment possible. I recognize that particular glare as the same one she uses when someone schedules a meeting that could have been an email, only intensified by a factor of ten.
I smile back at her innocently.
