Hung

Still, walking away from him was hard.

Especially since parts of me—the more southern parts—insist I should grab his hand and lock him in my cabin. He’d make one hell of an afternoon off.

On the other side of the camp, a car starts. I jump before I can stop myself and the silverware I’m holding bites it, scattering on the cafeteria floor. I look down at it. Yup. Dirty, dirtier, and dirtiest. I’ll have to re-wash it all. Bending down, I scoop up the rejects and eye the departing vehicle as surreptitiously as I can. Just one of the hotshots leaving camp for an afternoon of R&R. A car pulling out—not in.

Still safe.

“Don’t overreact,” I tell the silverware. “He can’t find me out here.”

Okay—so it’s won’t and not can’t. I’m pretty sure my ex could track me down in Antarctica if he put his mind to it. Thad Hill has the tracking skills of a bloodhound.

Unfortunately for my peace of mind, the sound of a second motor approaching the camp requires a recheck of the impromptu parking lot through the cafeteria’s front windows. The battered pickup definitely seems like hotshot material. Hotshots don’t make billionaire money, and they like their trucks tough and rugged, chosen for their ability to take on backcountry roads and haul loads. Like the men themselves. There’s a certain raw beauty about that kind of dedication and power. Hotshots are men with staying power.

Unlike my ex.

Thad will come for me. Making like an ostrich won’t change that truth. I should have known better. Thad is law enforcement and I fingered him for a jewelry theft and cover-up arson . . . and then he deflected the blame back onto me. Nevertheless, the possibility of discovery seems far away right now. I’m three hundred miles away from Mr. Douche. Plus, the fire camp, for all its rough-and-tumble ways, is more peaceful than any town or city. Instead of skyscrapers, ponderosa pine reach for the summer sky, which is all hazy heat and summer gold instead of smog and light pollution. It’s like I’m starring in my very own Disney movie because I can count at least a dozen different birds flying around and making mad, loud bird noises. Even the squirrels have glossy coats, for crying out loud. The place certainly smells a hell of a lot better as well.

Line cook isn’t any harder than my last job as a home care worker. I had my own small business, taking care of a few elderly women. I met Thad when I picked up the phone and called for a wellness check for one of my ladies who hadn’t answered the door or collected her mail. He arrived in uniform. Different from my usual dates, but he was polite. Considerate. My client was fine, but he kept on coming by. Calling, my ladies said.

Sniffing around, more like.

You know those truffle hogs that Frenchmen use to dig up super expensive, ugly as fuck, but really damned tasty truffles? Thad is the ultimate truffle hog. He’s all beady eyes and snuffling nose. You know, if he were a girl. I Googled it the other night when I couldn’t sleep, and it turns out that truffle hogs are all females because truffles have some chemical in common with male pig saliva. You’re confused? Welcome to my life.

Hog or not, Thad made his grand entrance into my life, and I greeted him like he was a tasty treat. He had the same reaction to me, which should have been my first clue. Small-town dating has never been my thing. I don’t do sitting on the front porch or evening walks and sweet sunsets. I stuck out and not in a sexy or good way. After he met my Mrs. Joan when I was running late one night, his interest had done a 180. The elderly lady sat outside with him, wearing her “diamonds” and chatting Thad’s ear off, while I finished up inside. Unfortunately, the only diamonds I’m familiar with are the tiny engagement rings my friends’ fiancés buy at the local Sears. I had no idea that those big stones were real.

Yeah. Reality check.

Dragging my attention back to my new here-and-now, I dump the sullied silverware into the dirty bin and then add more clean forks to the pile I’m assembling for the dinner rush. Fifty should be enough. Eight hours into my shift, and quitting time is definitely on the horizon. I hate loose ends, though, so I’ll finish the sorting, prep the tables for tonight’s hungry hordes, and then clock out. After all, it isn’t as if I have anywhere to go. My deluxe, five-star summer accommodations are that double bed in my just-big-enough-for-one cabin at Baby Bear Lodge. The cabins are named after the local wildlife, and of course I’ve been blessed with Beaver #1. The mattress sags something fierce, and the slippery art of keeping the sheets put still eludes me. So there you have it, folks. More forks, or an early night curled up in bed with a paperback.