Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 88460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
What’s next? Arts and crafts time? Making friendship bracelets out of sea-glass beads, sourced from the beach and polished?
Elijah shrugs again, completely unfazed. “Nah, there’s a whole list of stuff we can sign up for at the main cabin. Where Coach is staying. Waterskiing, canoe races, archery. You know, camp stuff.”
“Camp stuff,” I deadpan the words. “And here I thought we were supposed to relax.”
“Relaxation through participation, man,” Elijah says, sounding way too Zen for my liking. He obviously doesn’t realize we’re trapped in a web of competitive wilderness survival masquerading as team building.
“Dude. Are you high?” I ask him, hoping my voice won’t carry across the lake.
High . . . igh . . . igh . . .
“No. I’m embracing the experience.” He laughs, a little too laid back for my taste. “You should try it—maybe you’ll surprise yourself.”
I shake my head. “The only thing I’m going to enjoy is my bed while the rest of you are doing downward dog at dawn.”
Which sounds fucking terrible.
Elijah shrugs again, still grinning. “Your loss. More for the rest of us.”
“I’m sure I’ll survive.”
I watch as Elijah pulls out his phone, stares at it for a beat, then stuffs it into the back pocket of his athletic pants. He looks over at me with a nonplussed expression he’s perfected. “Dex texted. A few of us are going downtown to a pub for a burger. Wanna come?”
I shake my head. “Nah, I’m gonna grab groceries. Think I’ll pop an old movie into the ancient VCR back at the cabin and, you know—embrace the experience.”
He chuckles, giving me a little salute. “You do you—but don’t be jealous when the rest of us return home enlightened.”
Chapter 2
Lucy
“Where did these giant men come from?”
The bar is packed with bodies, many of them broad shouldered. They’re taking up more space than the average human, and I glance around, perplexed. It’s like someone in town put out a Bat-Signal for giants, and they all decided to congregate here, crowding Lakeside Brew with their booming laughs and oversize appetites.
“I’m being serious. Where did these enormous men come from?” Annabelle asks again. She scans the room, perched on a barstool beside me, a glass of cheap wine in her hand. They don’t serve wine at Lakeside Brew (it’s mostly microbrews and IPAs), but Ben, the owner, lets her keep a bottle behind the counter. Why? Because this is Annabelle and rules bend for her the way trees bend for the wind.
Plus, Ben wants to bang her.
“I don’t know.” I spin on my stool, pretending I don’t know who these guys are, to have a little fun with Annabelle. One of the guys is posturing three feet away, flexing his biceps as he talks. “Maybe they heard your cries for lumberjacks and came in droves.”
Annabelle snorts. “The lumberjacks I hired look nothing like this.”
Half of these behemoths are either pounding back beers or shouting across tables at each other, all testosterone and bravado. It’s not exactly the usual crowd for a sleepy night in our sleepy lake town.
My best friend leans in. “Do you think they’re a team or something? Or a beefcake contest?”
I laugh, shaking my head. “If it’s a beefcake contest, I want a front-row seat.”
“Preach.” She raises her glass. “I do feel like these guys are like cockroaches—they’re turning up everywhere.” She clinks her wineglass against mine in solidarity. “I don’t have time for testosterone-filled blowhards. Speaking of lumberjacks—I’m coordinating Fall Fest, and only three of my lumberjacks have shown up for practice.”
“Know what I’ve been wondering?” I tap on the side of my drink. “Since when do they hire lumberjacks for the fall festival?”
Annabelle waves me off like I’ve completely missed the point. “Since it became trendy on the internet. We’re going to have them chop wood in flannel shirts for a live demonstration.” Her voice lowers dramatically. “Think: outdoorsy. Think: photo ops. Tourists eat that shit up.”
She’s not wrong.
We live in a popular lake town full of them; tourists appear with money and an appetite for anything giving them a real slice of quaint lake living. A little waterskiing show during the day, campfires at night—paired with an organic latte from the local café.
Suddenly they’re posting about how they’ve disconnected and reconnected with nature, all while their gas-guzzling luxury SUVs sit parked a few feet away.
“Is this actually about tourists?” I roll my eyes. “Or is this an excuse for you to watch a bunch of buff guys chop wood?”
She sips her wine. “Can’t two things both be true?”
“Yes, but—”
“Listen,” Annabelle interrupts. “I paid those douchebags a deposit! Three out of eight showed up, Lucy! Three. I’m going to need more lumberjacks. Where does one even find more lumberjacks?”
“You still have time for them to show,” I remind her. “The festival isn’t until next weekend, and it’s only Saturday.”