He pulls out his phone and I give him my number. When he texts me so I’ll have his, the message simply readsDrew Hartley. No emoji, no joke. Just his name. I save it.
“Drew Hartley,” I say, reading the screen.
“That’s me.”
“Kendall Cross.” I extend my hand across the counter, because this is a professional arrangement and I want it to feel like one.
He takes it. His hand is rough and warm and large, and when his fingers close around mine, something moves through me that has nothing to do with trail maps or terrain guides or proving anything to corporate.
I let go first.
“Saturday at seven,” I say.
“Saturday at seven.”
He holds my gaze for one beat longer than he needs to. Then he turns and walks out of the store, and the doorway looks normal-sized again.
I pick up the trail maps and stand there with my hands full, not moving, not restocking, not doing anything productive. The partnership. The resource guide. Calling corporate on Monday to frame this as a local initiative they should support. That’s where my head should be.
Not on the way his hand felt around mine.
3
DREW
On Saturday morning, I swing by the station to grab a handheld radio before heading to the trailhead.
Holt is at the kitchen table with a mug of coffee, reading an incident report. Mack is leaning against the counter eating a protein bar and talking to no one in particular about whether a breakfast burrito counts as a balanced meal if you put spinach in it.
“Hartley.” Holt looks up. “Day off.”
“I know. I’m grabbing a radio for the terrain orientation.”
Mack stops chewing. “The terrain orientation. With the outfitter girl?”
“Her name is Kendall.”
“Right. Kendall.” Mack grins. “The one you haven’t shut up about since Tuesday.”
I haven’t talked about her once. I mentioned the partnership to Holt because it’s his district and he should know. Mack was apparently listening.
“It’s a terrain consult,” I say. “She’s putting together a resource guide for the crew.”
“On a Saturday morning. At seven a.m. On your day off.” Mack takes another bite of his protein bar. “That’s dedication, brother.”
Holt doesn’t look up from his report. “Leave him alone, Mack.”
“I’m just saying. If the new guy wants to spend his weekend hiking with a pretty girl and calling it work, I respect the strategy.”
“It’s not a strategy.”
“It’s a little bit of a strategy.”
I grab the radio off the charging dock and clip it to my belt. Holt glances at me over the top of the report, and there’s something in his expression that’s not quite a smile. More like recognition. The captain doesn’t miss much.
“Learn the terrain,” he says. “That’s what matters.”
“Copy.”
