Page 2 of Ranger's Secret

Meanwhile, Ms. Chen, Trailbound's CEO and the human embodiment ofnail this or you're fired, watches with the kind of interest that makes my career flash before my eyes.

Perfect. Nothing says "team player" like being singled out five minutes in.

My stomach does a slow, traitorous flip, but I slap on my best professional smile and say, "Of course," like I wasn't just contemplating throwing myself into a ditch to avoid this exact moment.

There's no point arguing. Not with Ms. Chen studying every move. So I fall into step beside Jagger, close enough to catch his cologne. Earthy, woody, coffee and chocolate with a hint of flowers. I remember that scent so well, how it wrapped around me while he kissed me against that bathroom wall.

Stop it, Delaney.I slam the door on that memory and focus on putting one foot in front of the other.

It's fine. I'm fine. Just me, him, and a mile of trail to pretend we're strangers and not former wall-leaning, breath-stealing mistakes. Not my best friend's brother and the woman who should have known better.

The forest is absolutely gorgeous. Towering evergreens shoot up like nature's skyscrapers, while big leaf maples glow butter-yellow against the Douglas firs. Red alder leaves drift down in perfect copper spirals. The air has that rich, musky scent that brands would kill to bottle.

Under literally any other circumstance, I'd be taking mental notes for the Trailbound campaign. I'd be thinking about hashtags, angles, storyboards.

Instead, all I can focus on is the guilt gnawing at my stomach. I kissed my best friend's brother. The one person who should have been completely off limits. I thought I could avoid this, avoid him. But here we are.

What is he thinking? Is he remembering that kiss too, or has he filed it away as a meaningless mistake? And why can't I stop stealing glances at the way his shoulders move? I need to get through two weeks of this without imploding my career or my friendship. Two weeks of pretending my pulse doesn't race around him.

"Delaney," Jagger says suddenly, his voice loud enough to snap my head up. "Since you're here for the Trailbound account, why don't you tell the group which of these pines is a lodgepole?"

Are you kidding me right now? Of course he'd put me on the spot like this, right in front of Ms. Chen. I spent hours cramming plant identification guides before coming here, but memorizing pictures in my apartment is apparently very different from standing in an actual forest where every damn tree looks exactly the same. My mouth opens, but my brain delivers nothing except a panicked slideshow of identical green things.

A few people glance over. Brett from Sterling is already smirking. Ms. Chen lifts an eyebrow like this is the pop quiz portion of the pitch.

"Um… is it the one with the…"

Jagger folds his arms across that annoyingly broad chest. "The lodgepole," he says, gesturing to a tree behind me, "has needles in clusters of two, thin scaly bark, and grows straight up like a telephone pole. Hence the name."

A couple of people snicker. One of them wheezes. Brett actually laughs out loud.

Fire spreads across my cheeks. I force my mouth into what I hope passes for a smile. What the hell is Jagger’s problem? He doesn't get to put me on the spot when Ms. Chen is right there taking mental notes.

It continues for the next couple of hours. He singles me out again, asking me to shave tinder from a piece of bark while the entire group watches my clumsy knife work. Then comes thebowline knot demonstration, my fingers fumbling uselessly with the rope.

By the time we make it back to base camp, I'm wrecked. Physically from the hike, sure, but mostly from the mental gymnastics of trying to keep up with whatever forest-themed chess game Jagger is playing.

"Dinner's at six in the main lodge," Sarah calls out. "Free time until then!"

The group starts to scatter toward the cabins, laughing, chatting, already bonding like this is a summer retreat and not some twisted reality show where my accidental ex-hookup is the leader from hell.

I check the assignment sheet. Cabin 7. Just me, my duffel, and two weeks of praying Jagger forgets I exist.

I find the cabin tucked back under a canopy of fiery-orange maples, the porch littered with crisp fallen leaves. It's cute. Quiet. Exactly what I need to get inside, wash the day off, and reset my nervous system.

But the key won't turn.

I jiggle it. Yank it out. Try again.

Nothing.

"Seriously?" I mutter, trying to shove the key in a third time when a large hand slaps against the doorframe beside my head.

Every muscle in my body locks up. Air catches in my throat as I turn.

Jagger.

"Can't manage a key, Holt?"

---