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“Nobody reads the small print,” she argues. “This is extortion. You’re charging us for a service you won’t even perform.”

I don’t remind her that the deposit rule wasn’t hidden in a wall of tiny text but clearly written on the form, and she must have checked the box to agree with the rule, or the system wouldn’t have let her through.

“This is standard practice, ma’am,” I reply calmly, sticking to my professional routine. “Our guides are booked for weeks in advance. Now, I can start the refund process for you right away, but it’ll probably take a day or so for the credit card company to process it because it’s almost the end of the day. Will that work for you?”

“If it’s not in my account tomorrow, I’m reporting you,” she declares, then hangs up without letting me confirm her information.

I close my eyes and breathe through the lingering resentment and tension the conversation brought up. I don’t like conflict, but working with people brings up stuff like this a lot, so I’ve sought out techniques to let go of the stress. The last thing I want is to carry the dissatisfaction of strangers into my private life.

I click through the refund process, double-check the numbers, and send it into the ether. Maybe Mrs. Collins will read the form more closely next time.

I snort. That’s unlikely, but a girl can hope.

Then I tab back to the spreadsheet to see which of the freelance mountain guides I’ll need to inform of the cancellation. The Collinses had booked the Waterfall Tour, a two-day hike that takes the trail following the Silver River, and their guide…

Bowen Webber.

My belly does a little flip when I read the name.

Which is weird, because I’ve never met the orc guide. He’s been booked solid for the past several weeks, and somehow, I never seem to be on the clock when he comes by to collect his group of tourists. They usually leave at the ass crack of dawn, way before we open, and the one time he had a late start for a shorter tour, Andy, the other employee at the center, asked me to switch schedules.

So I’ve never seen Bowen in person.

But I’ve talked with him on the phone. Nothing personal, of course—it was all business, informing him of new reservations, confirming weather conditions, and noting every check-in he made as the group he led that day reached their destination.

He’s always lovely and asks how my day’s going, as if I’m the one braving nature and all its dangers and not safe at the center. All perfectly innocent stuff. But every time I see his name flash on the phone, my body lights up like a Christmas tree.

Taking one more deep breath, I pick up the work phone again and scroll to find his number. I push my hair from my face and straighten my back instinctively as I wait.

“Webber,” he answers.

That voice. Deep, rumbling, and sexy as hell. I squeeze my thighs together and close my eyes to shove down the surge of…emotion. It’s not arousal—it’s not. I’ve never heard of someone getting wet from hearing a man’s voice, but I seem to have developed some weird Pavlovian response.

“Hi, Bowen, this is Lainey from the center,” I rush the greeting. “I, um, have some bad news for you. The couple you were supposed to take up to the Silver River waterfalls canceled at the last minute.”

“Oh.” He pauses as if thinking, then says, “It happens. D’you put the refund through?”

“Yep. Minus the deposit, which they weren’t happy about.”

The complaint slips through because we’re colleagues in the hospitality business, and even though I sit on my butt all day while he hikes the roughest trails, we both deal with the same people.

“Were they impolite to you?” His question is a growl, but his displeasure is directed at the tourists, not me. “If they give you grief, tell them to talk to Morris, he’ll work it out so you don’t⁠—”

“No, it’s fine,” I say quickly. “Nothing I haven’t dealt with before.”

I don’t want Bowen to tell Morris I’ve complained—or for either of them to think I can’t do my job.

“That’s all I wanted to tell you,” I add, cursing myself for saying anything at all. “So you’re free tomorrow. I can write a note for Andy to call you if we get any last-minute requests. The weather’s supposed to be nice, so…”

“You’re not working tomorrow?” Bowen asks.

“Nope, I’m off until Friday,” I say with more cheer than I feel. “But like I said, I’ll let Andy know your schedule’s open.”

There’s a pause on Bowen’s side, and I glance at the phone, wondering if he hung up without saying goodbye. He’s never done that before—he’s always been really nice to me, even when I was the new girl still figuring out the scheduling software that was different than the ones I’ve worked with in the past.

“Bowen? Everything okay?”

Maybe he lost the signal. Wouldn’t be the first time in these mountains.