“Indie, we need you! Stupid Troy didn’t wake up again and Barbara Pancake is going to walk into a cactus today, I can feel it in my bones. Can you take tweezer duty? Please say yes.” Mercer’s panicky voice blasts through the phone and practically blows my hair back.
“Who is this?”
“UGH!”
“Okay, okay, I’m on my way. Give me ten minutes.”
Ten minutes later, I find Mercer in the front desk area of the resort, surrounded by a group of women sporting hydration backpacks, serious boots, and even a few hiking poles. I wonder again if I’m out of my depth. I’m sporting my usual flip flops with leggings, but Mercer is quick to get me suited up in the standard khaki shorts and white polo uniform, and lets me use a spare pair of her hiking boots. She gives me a gold name tag that reads “Jamie” with the explanation that they haven’t made my nametag yet, so today I am Jamie. I change and wander back to the front desk area, where I spot Eric chatting with Sunny.
He holds a fist out for knuckles. “Jamie!” He laughs. “I take it Troy slept in again? I’m not complaining.”
“Yeah, but I am,” I say through a yawn. “Maybe I should use Troy’s name tag. That way when I inevitably mess up it won’t be on Jamie.” Poor Jamie. She is too nice to deserve this. “I’m nervous.”
“Nah. You’ll be fine.” Eric’s golden brown skin crinkles around his eyes when he smiles. “Just follow me.”
As the guests gather their things and pile into the van, I pull Mercer aside.
“I don’t think I’m ready for this.”
She rolls her eyes. “You are. You know how to walk? Carry things?”
I roll my eyes right back at her. We are the picture of maturity. “I mean, I’ve barely been on a real hike, and look at them.” I gesture toward a particularly prepared hiker who has the water pack, hat, hiking stick, a watch that looks like it can communicate with the International Space Station, and boots that have probably seen Machu Picchu.
Mercer pulls me in, “Little secret. You don’t need all that junk on a three mile guided hike. Ankle support and water, yes. But the rest is only so she can prove something to whoever follows her on social media or whatever. My five-year-old nephew does this hike barefoot with his Thor helmet and toy Mjolnir.” She backs away. “Now quit blubbering and get in the van, Jamie,” she commands with a smile.
After a short drive, we arrive at a trailhead. Mercer passes the first aid backpack to me while the ladies unload and start taking pictures—Machu Picchu lady is working hard to keep everyone but herself out of frame—and we are on our way.
I bring up the rear as ordered and most of the group is content to ignore me, oohing and aahing over the scenery. I get caught up in the rocks and sprinkling of spring wildflowers myself, and completely forget that I’m here as an employee. We scramble over boulders and squeeze through sandstone crevices, the women chattering and laughing the whole way. I make sure Eric’s toned, brown legs are always in my line of sight—I don’t want to fall behind and get lost.
We arrive at a large outcropping of pale beige sandstone that provides a shaded area that looks well used. Mercer announces that we’ve reached the turnaround point in our hike and gives the ladies a few minutes to rest. Some resume taking selfies (I’m looking at you, Machu Picchu); some wander away from the group and sit cross-legged in the sand, closing their eyes and lifting their faces to the sky. I find the coziest looking rock I can and sit next to Eric and Mercer.
Mercer bumps me with her shoulder. “Is it as bad as you thought?”
I take a deep breath through my nose, totally content. “Not even close. I’d almost give up my job and do this full time. I love it here.”
“Right? It’s a sick gig,” Eric chimes in. “What do you usually do?”
This starts a round of questioning about my real job, which I neatly bob and weave around—internet marketing isn't atotallie, right? I sigh with relief when Mercer announces it’s time to hike back to the vans.
This time, Mercer brings up the rear while Eric and I take the lead and he entertains me with factoids about the landscape and himself. Did you know that the red rocks get their unique color from iron oxide, which basically means that the rocks are rusted? And did you also know that Eric has a killer record collection, including a copy ofHotel Californiasigned by Glenn Frey himself? Because he does. And I should come check it out sometime. I definitely don't tell him that I have no idea who Glenn Frey is, but we spend the hike laughing and chatting. Eric is good company.
About halfway back, we’re walking single file around a narrow turn in the trail, when Eric stops so quickly I bump into his back. With a giggle I tell him his brake lights are out, but he cuts me off.
"Oh hey, Mr. Pratt," he says.
Mr. Pratt?He has my full attention, and the rest of the ladies, too, who are squawking like birds, wondering why we've paused our hike.
Until we see him.
Somewhere in the distance a choir of angels sings and rays of golden morning sunshine part around him as he stops in front of us, the breeze ruffling his dark hair. My heart knocks against my ribcage at the sight of him and I am determined to behave normally around him for as long as possible today.
"Fjord," I announce with a sweep of my arm in his direction, like I'm announcing his arrival at a royal ball.
That didn't take long.Nutjob Indie, at your service.
Eric shoots me a look and introduces Joe as the owner of the resort to our group of hikers. Meanwhile Joe’s lips are in a thin line, his eyes hidden behind dark aviator sunglasses, the living definition of sexy-terrifying-boss-man.
The ladies stop their squawking and start falling all over each other to meet Joe, which I find supremely annoying. They clearly aren't aware that I called dibs on him, like, three whole days ago. But Joe is the perfect host, shaking hands and asking each guest about her stay so far.
