The trailers Clark’s first contractor spec’d out are yaaaawwwwwn.
They’re luxurious, sure, but they look like they were cookie-cuttered out of beige and gray dough, like tiny corporate hotel rooms nestled inside Airstreams.
“Is this what you want? More of these?” I try to keep my voice neutral as he shows me the other guy’s plan and materials for the remaining trailers—carpet squares, fabric samples, tile.
Clark’s no dummy, though. He narrows his eyes at me. “It’s what we thought we wanted. Why?”
“They’re—” I hesitate. “Can I be honest?”
“Please,” he says.
“They’re bland. Vanilla pudding.”
Clark’s eyebrows rise practically to his hairline. “So, you’ve got a better idea?”
“I think I might. Show me the ones that aren’t done yet.”
“We don’t have time to fuck around,” Clark warns.
“I know.”
He gives me a level look, which I return. I’ve designed trailers for a lot of men who think they know everything, and Clark, who’s obviously a teddy bear, doesn’t scare me at all.
“Don’t make me regret giving you some rope,” he says.
I smile. “I won’t.”
He takes me to the six trailers that are still waiting to be worked on. I reach into my satchel and pull out a clipboard and a tape measure, then begin making sketches and writing notes. I carefully determine specific dimensions. The good news is there’s a lot to work with. Two of the trailers will have to be torn down to the bones, but the rest won’t.
Taking my measurements along with some warnings from Clark, I drive Bernadette back to Kane’s. I sit at my dinette with my laptop, sipping my favorite ginger tea, and work on a proposal.
Clark wants me to present my ideas to the entire Wilder Adventures crew next week. I don’t like to leave anything to chance when I’m working on a project. And in this case, because I’m proposing something different from what Clark thought he wanted, I know I need to provide a near-perfect proposal.
I start by pulling together a Pinterest board to represent each of the trailers I’m envisioning.
This is one of my favorite parts of the job, and I pass a pleasant couple of hours filling my boards with photos.
When I’m done with that, I’ll draft PowerPoint slides explaining my concept and showing some examples, and by the end of the weekend, I’ll have filled pages of my sketchbook with detailed drawings.
Which reminds me: I need to take a closer look at the Wilder Adventures website and social media marketing. I need to make sure I’m lining up my proposal with Lucy’s vision, which—Clark explained—is what has driven Wilder’s current strategy.
Luckily for me, Lucy is obviously great at what she does, and the Wilder brand is crystal clear. I start jotting down words and phrases that jump out at me: “connection,” “camaraderie,” “self-discovery.” “Making outdoor adventure fun, playful, and accessible.” “The wilderness is the playground where you’ll journey with your friends, discover your true self, and meet your new soulmates.”
I want Lucy to write my marketing materials.
I hear a thud outside, then another, and manage to ignore them. But after ten minutes or so, when the thuds don’t stop, curiosity gets the better of me. I need to stretch my legs anyway, so I step out of Bernadette and come face-to-face with a lovely sight: Kane Wilder, shirtless to the waist, splitting wood. His back is to me, gorgeous twin grooves on either side of his spine, muscle bunching and flexing in his shoulders. He raises the maul, letting me see his forearms at work, then brings it down.
Gahhhh.
How long is too long to stand, watching a man split wood? At what point does it cross over from, I just stepped outside… to I am caught in a thirst trap, unable to move territory?
The universe answers this question when Kane turns suddenly, maul still in his hands, and catches me watching.
His eyebrows go up.
I can feel my cheeks turn pink.
“I didn’t realize I had an audience,” he says, one corner of his mouth tilting.
“I just—” It’s impossible to exonerate myself, but I give it my best shot. “I was just going to thank you again for the breakfasts.”
He’s brought me breakfast in bed every day.
“It’s my pleasure.” His smile grows, crinkles forming at the corners of his eyes. “Besides, I’m trying to sell my nurturing traits, and breakfast’s what I’ve got.”
“It’s impressive,” I say. “The waffles were fantastic.”
We stand there awkwardly for a moment.
He sets the maul down. (No! Don’t let me stop you!) “I’ve got to go into town for groceries. Can I get you anything?”
“No, I—I went yesterday.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Pickles? Ice cream?”
I laugh. “My cravings are so much weirder than that. Grapefruit. Canned peaches. Boston cream pie, and let me tell you, it is not so easy to get Boston cream pie around here.”
He grins. “I bet we can find some. I love a good challenge.” He tilts his head. “You busy? Want to go on a Boston cream pie hunt?”
“I was—”
My body’s all discombobulated, my mouth watering at the thought of getting my craving fulfilled, my eyes unable to leave the gleam of sweat on Kane’s sculpted torso. Boston cream pie. Kane Wilder. Two irresistible temptations.
Plus getting to know Rush Creek a little better would help me create an even stronger presentation, and make sure my ideas are in line with the vibe of the town.
Win. Win. Win.
“Sure,” I say, and am rewarded with white teeth, eye crinkles, and a dimple.
As if the taut pecs, thickly muscled shoulders, and six-pack abs were not enough to ruin me.