As soon as we’re off the call, I let out the string of curse words I’ve been holding back.
“Um—”
The voice in the doorway is a jumpscare like I haven’t had in years, and the next thing I know, my phone is facedown inside an old mop bucket.
“Sosorry,” she says, tucking a strand of long dark hair behind her ear. “I changed my mind about one of the things I took out of my pack earlier—I swear I wasn’t eavesdropping.”
It’s the girl from before, the one who caught me changing inside the museum’s gigantic tree display. Everything about her is stunning: her light green eyes, the color almost unearthly; her tan, toned legs, which stretch on for days; her smile, with that one cute dimple.
It’s too bad she’s about to have the most traumatic two weeks of her life. Which, in turn, meansmynext two weeks are about to be miserable, too.
I’ve seen it so often I could write a book about it: city girl signs up for one of our excursions, determined to prove something to herself, then spends every single day regretting the life choices that brought her there. Women like this—in my own personal experience, anyway—always wear the wrong shoes and bring too much stuff, then complain about how heavy their pack is and how much their feet hurt, or they twist an ankle. They want Instagram-worthy snapshots without putting the work in to get to those places.
“Be my guest,” I say, fishing my phone out of the mop bucket, which—thankfully—has only the barest trace of water left in it from the last time it was used.
“I’m Sadie, by the way,” she says as she plucks a set of silk pajamas out of the employee locker where she left them.
Silk pajamas for a wilderness hike: now that’s a first. The idea of her—the idea ofthoselegs in those shorts—it’s an image that sneaks up without permission, one I’m quick to try and shove down.
I’ve always made it a point to remain professional while at work, because I’ve seen it go wrong too many times when people don’t. Leader/trekker flings never end well: someone always ends up with a broken bone, a broken heart, or both. Sometimes they end up out of a job. That’s why we have rules now—we’re not to get involved.
I’ve never had an issue with the rules. I prefer to keep the people in my care—and myself, and my professional reputation—wholly intact.
Silk shorts like those, though, could test even my own strong sense of self-control. Maybe I should tell her to leave them here in the mop closet.
Sadie leans against the employee lockers, eyeing me as I wipe the water off my phone’s heavy-duty case.
“Everything okay?” she asks.
“Could be better.”
Probably not the best idea to bad-mouth my coleader.
“Anything I can do to help?” she asks.
“Everything’s all packed up and ready, but thanks for offering,” I reply. “Now we’re just waiting on the others.”
Over the next half hour, the rest of the group arrives.
First are Joshua and Zoe, the engaged couple. She’s got a diamond the size of the moon on her left hand, and I’ve already seen them kiss four times since they walked through the door. His hand is in her backpocket, her fingers are hooked through one of his belt loops—it makes me wish we had rules about PDA for the trekkers.
Next are the three collegiate athletes, Brittany, Emma, and Parker. They play tennis for Pepperdine and look extremely fit, like they’ll have no problem hiking. Unlike Sadie—and Zoe, for that matter—these girls have the right-sized packs and are dressed in clothes that will work well on the trails.
The last group to arrive includes three guys in their early thirties who can best be described as coffee bros: they take their coffeeveryseriously, traveling the globe to source beans from all sorts of places, and own a handful of cafés up in the Pacific Northwest. From what I understand, this trip is meant to be a sort of leadership retreat for them. They have matching tattoos of their octopus logo on their forearms, which…says…a lot.
Sadie’s already here, of course, the only one traveling on her own. She’s changed into a pair of black leggings—a relief, since the last way I want to spend today is with my nose in the first-aid kit every five minutes, searching for Band-Aids. Bare legs are just asking for trouble.
And then there’s Matteo.
He strides in, chill as ever, his dark hair longer than when I saw him last but just as unruly. You’d never guess someone like Matteo could leave such a trail of destruction in his wake—he looks like someone with a heart. Friendly. Laid-back. Puts everyone he meets at ease.
Seeing him now, I have to work to unclench my jaw.
The meet-and-greet is awkward.
Matteo suspiciously avoids eye contact with me as he makes his way around the room. With everyone else, he’s very chatty: asking the coffee bros about their matching tattoos and the tennis girls’ predictions for who will win Wimbledon. He’s always been such a chameleon, reflecting back what seems to be genuine interest in whatever a person is most invested in—I’ve seen it so many times before, always thought it was one of his most admirable qualities.
Now all I see is a guy who pretends to care until you’re standing in the way of something he wants.
