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We were both laughing now, breathless as he lifted up my prize. The trout glistened and slapped against the mesh as a grin broke across Nate’s usually stoic face. He looked from the fish to my flushed expression, his eyes softening with that rare warmth.

“Well, look at that. You actually did it,” he said, a hint of pride rich in his voice. He unhooked the fish with practiced ease and held it up. “Tell you what. I’ll light up that old iron skillet over the fire pit tonight. We can skin it and fry it up with some butter and lemon, exactly the way my old man used to do it on our camping trips in the Cascades. Just… in honor of your first catch and days gone by. What do you say?”

My laughter guttered out, and a grateful smile tugged at my lips. This felt and sounded like old Nate and I was happier to see him again than I thought I’d be. “I say that sounds perfect.”

22

Ava

I was happy that the tension from a few days ago had eased off. I didn’t know if Deacon and Nate had spoken about anything, but that invisible wall of hostility that had kept them distant for a day or two had narrowed. They still weren’t totally okay, but as I observed them working together throughout the morning and afternoon jobs, I noticed they stood shoulder-to-shoulder again instead of keeping a five-foot perimeter between them. When Deacon pointed out a structural flaw later in the day, Nate gave him a simple, single nod of acknowledgement.

Whatever happened, I could tell they’d reached some form of a truce, and that knowledge left me feeling content and happy.

I brought the men some freshly made lemonade during their afternoon break outside, and all three of them looked as grateful as though I was offering them oxygen. They took a moment, gulping down their glasses and each pouring a second serving from the pitcher before Nate finally wiped his hands on a grease rag and scanned his eyes over the three trucks parked close to the trailer.

His body straightened up, announcing even before his words did that he had something important to tell us. “Flat-bed drop-off is at the crossroads by the highway milestone,” he said, his voice flat but authoritative. “The freight company wouldn’t risk bringing the semi down these narrow lake roads, so we have to go haul it ourselves. We’re taking all three rigs. Deacon’s got the rack on his truck for the lumber, I’m taking the glass crate in mine, and Ethan’s got the open bed for the framing hardware.”

He tossed his rag into his truck cab and leaned against the door, a small, knowing glint in his eye as he looked between me, Deacon, and himself. “Which means you need a seat, Ava. Choose your driver.”

I choked on air.

My eyes cut between Deacon and Nate, anxiety coiling in my gut. I had just been thinking about how grateful I was that they finally seemed to put the awkwardness of the truck debacle behind them, only to be slapped in the face with yet another truck debacle.

Deacon smirked, looking down at the ground. Nate kept his gaze on mine, not looking anywhere else. It didn’t have to be said, but I just knew that there was an air of competition between the guys. They were about as good at hiding their impatience to hear my answer as I was at hiding my horror at having to give it. But fortunately for me, I had an easy out, a neutral, sweet, and totally reliable third-party.

I stepped closer to Ethan, nudging him with my hip. “Got my driver.”

He smiled down at me, seemingly pleased that I’d chosen him for more than just keeping world peace. “I’d be honored.”

Deacon snorted and rolled his eyes, turning around and climbing into the driver’s seat of his truck. “When you’re done mooning over being the selected chauffeur, we could probably make a move to head out now.”

Nate said nothing, but he also didn’t seem too bothered by my choice as long as it wasn’t Deacon. He got into his own truck, starting the engine and taking the lead to the drop-off spot. Ethan and I followed suit, and soon enough all three vehicles were rattling down the uneven road.

The five-mile drive wound away from the lake house, climbing up a steep, gravel logging road hemmed in by suffocatingly thick walls of pine and cedar. The potholes filled with muddy rainwater ensured that each of the trucks groaned along the path.

To drown out the noise, Ethan put on a playlist, trying to find a song he thought I would like. “Not sure what you’re into, but these are mainly golden oldies,” he admitted, sounding somewhat embarrassed.

I thought that was absolutely adorable.

“Hey, I’m a woman of taste. Golden oldies are the best. And I might be mistaken, but I thought I heard Billy Idol in there somewhere,” I said teasingly.

Ethan’s eyes lit up as he found the track again and “Flesh for Fantasy” began blasting through his speakers. I laughed in delight, picking up on lyrics I hadn’t heard in a hot minute. Ethan fell in sync with me, and we began singing together in god-awful disharmony, enjoying ourselves with every single second. We even mimicked the instrumentals, and I couldn’t be sure, but I could’ve sworn our duet triggered an angry cacophony of bird calls from somewhere above the canopy.

A text came through on Ethan’s phone, and he gestured for me to open it for him. When I read who it was from, I burst out laughing. Ethan looked at me, still humming along to the song. I turned the screen to show him the message.

“Deacon says we need to be more considerate of others in our surroundings. But with a much shorter, less dignified choice of words,” I said.

Ethan chuckled and just turned the music up even louder. We carried on, no doubt pissing Deacon off even more because we both knew the lyrics of the next 80s banger that started playing, too.

We were horrible at singing, no doubt about it. But it was cathartic, being able to just be silly and free with Ethan, especially in light of everything that had been happening in my life lately. His expressive hazel eyes were free of judgment. If anything, encouraging me to just let go with him and know that I was in good company. I appreciated that more than I think he knew, just like how I appreciated every other time he offered quiet, thoughtful gestures. He was grounding, a solid harbor in the storm of Deacon’s fire and Nate’s stoicism. A perfect counterpoint.

We eventually pulled into a wide, dirt turnout near the state highway where a massive commercial flatbed was parked. Ethan turned off the music. Waiting for us was an older, sun-baked man with a thick gray beard and a high-visibility vest.

“That’s Gus,” Ethan said, putting the truck in park. He jerked his head toward the old man. “He’s been selling lumber to us for years.”

I nodded, unbuckling my seatbelt and hopping out of the truck to meet up with the other guys.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Gus barked, spitting a stream of tobacco juice into the gravel. His eyes took me in as an anomaly, a friendly but still disconcerting smile on his mouth. “And this young lady is?”