Page 1

MARLOW

Like most kids, I once had a long list of potential future careers: zookeeper, ballerina, teacher, florist. At one point, I aspired to the lofty ambition of professional dog washer. Not a groomer…just someone who washes dogs.

But not once did I imagine myself working for the Forest Service.

And not one person on this entire planet would mistake me for a forest ranger…but here I am.

On my first day of work, I wore a dress. Not because I was totally clueless about what I’d gotten myself into, but because I don’t own any dress pants. It seemed pointless to buy some when I knew I would be issued a uniform on my first day anyway.

Two months later, I still stick out like a sore thumb here. The uniform looks and feels a lot like a Halloween costume on me.

It doesn’t help that somehow in 2022, in the year of our Lord and a female Vice President, they do not make forest ranger uniforms in women’s sizes.

Consequently, the pants fit me like a tube of wrapping paper.

They’re baggy on my waist and thighs, but ohmyGodsotight on my hips that bending over is out of the question.

If I drop something, I will have to lay flat on the ground in order to retrieve it.

And then I will have to choose between rolling away in shame (and possibly straight into traffic) or simply dying there eventually.

On my chest, pinned to my scratchy sage green polyester shirt, is a little silver name badge that reads: Marlow Stephens, Volunteer Coordinator, US Forest Service .

Whenever I start to question what the hell I’m doing here, I run my finger over the engraved letters, take a deep breath, and tell myself that I made the right choice.

This is a fresh start and I need to make the most of it.

_____

It’s a quiet Thursday morning at the Great Smoky Mountain Ranger Station. The mid-week lull is upon us. Most of the tourists have already exhausted themselves with their endless lists of activities, and a new batch of visitors won’t arrive until the weekend.

The lobby is empty when I step inside, aside from Emmett at the front desk. He gives me an unenthusiastic nod as I enter the building, but I know it’s nothing personal. He’s just sick of being stuck there all day, handing out the same map and answering the same questions.

My office is down a long hallway in the back of the building, directly across from the employee break room. This has its pros and cons.

On the pro side: coffee, the deliciously hot nectar of life.

On the con side: Ryan Ehler, fellow coffee enthusiast and a strong contender for the Asshole of the Year Award.

Lured by that familiar final gurgle of the coffee maker and the promise of a freshly brewed pot, I bypass my office completely and make a beeline straight into the break room.

And there he is, the Asshole of the Year himself.

He’s laughing about something with a ranger named Jack, but his smile fades as soon as he sees me. Ryan shoots me the same scathing look that he always does. His jaw clenches and his lips curl down into a frown. His narrowed eyes are quick to find me and then slow to peel away from me in disgust.

It’s a look that conveys exactly what he thinks of me. No more and no less.

It screams ‘you don’t belong here.’

As if I’m not already completely aware of that fact. I’ve had a lifetime of knowing where I don’t belong. It’s my sixth sense, and it tingles every time I walk into this building.

Deep breath, Marlow.

“Good morning,” I say in a cheery voice that I barely recognize as my own. To Jack, it probably sounds like a normal human greeting. But to Ryan, it is intended to convey the following message: I want to pour this scalding hot coffee on top of your head.

He seems to receive my silent transmission and takes a full step away from the coffee maker. Jack returns my greeting with a quick ‘Mornin’’ and a tilt of his coffee cup. Then he flees.

I’m embarrassed to say that my feud with Ryan is not exactly subtle. Some people like to stay and watch, while others prefer to run far, far away whenever we’re in a room together.

At the risk of sounding childish, I don’t want to say that Ryan started it.

So, I will say this instead: Ryan began it.

He took one look at me when I walked in and rolled his eyes.

And okay, fine – I get it – I wore a dress to a job that traditionally involves lots of nature and dirt and physical labor.

But to be fair, I was hired to manage the volunteers and summer interns, not fight forest fires and wrangle bears.

As luck would have it, I quickly learned that Ryan would be training me since he was the last person to hold the position of Volunteer Coordinator.

This afforded us lots of time together to pinpoint all the ways in which we do not like each other.

The light at the end of the tunnel was the fact that Ryan was transitioning into a law enforcement role with the agency.

Once my training was complete, he would be spending most of his time in the field… far, far away from the office.

Yet here he is.

All. The. Time.

“Shouldn’t you be out there arresting a porcupine or something?” I ask as I pour myself a cup of coffee.

Ryan lets out a sharp, humorless laugh, and I become acutely aware of how close we are standing.

It’s too close. I can smell the hair product responsible for his stupidly perfect bedhead.

Yet, we both refuse to step away. Invading each other’s space bubbles is just one of a thousand ways we choose to annoy the other person.

“Shouldn’t you be in your office ordering uniforms for the new interns? I asked you to take care of that days ago,” he retorts.

“And I did take care of it days ago. Purchasing just needs to approve the PO.”

“They usually approve it right away. Are you sure you did it correctly?”

“Yes, Ryan. I am very confident in my ability to fill out a purchase order for some pants.”

I square off to face him, which I’ll admit is a big mistake given our proximity. There’s barely room for our coffee cups between us. He hovers over me. I’m on the tall side, but my five-seven has nothing on his six-three.

There’s nothing left to do but glare at each other. This is how we communicate the true depths of our hatred for one another.

Ryan’s face is obnoxiously similar to one you might find on your high school’s prom king quarterback type.

Just fast-forward ten years and add a beard.

He has those stormy gray-blue eyes that seem genetically improbable when paired with his dark hair and olive skin.

Instead of hiding his square jaw line, his short beard seems to accentuate it.

And somehow, the hideous green polyester shirt is exactly his color.

Then there’s his smirk. That stupid little smirk that makes everyone like him instantly. Ryan seems to be testing this theory by using it on every single woman who passes through town, and I’m sad to say that the results are pretty conclusive: the smirk works.

But not on me. Gross.

Ryan’s staring back at me. His eyes flicker across my features, mentally cataloging any shortcomings and faults, I’m sure. He’s just looking for ammo. Like the time he called me Freckles and I accidentally stepped on his toes. All of them. On both feet.

The problem with being a redhead in situations like this is that flushing with anger looks a whole lot like blushing. And I’ll be damned if Ryan Ehler thinks for one second that I’m blushing coyly over his attention.

The only visible difference between the two emotions is the way that the red-hot prickle of anger crawls down my neck and settles on my chest. I feel it there now, reddening my skin.

And as much as I don’t want Ryan to think that I’m blushing, the idea of him looking at my cleavage makes me want to preemptively slap him.

“Oh, hey guys,” Linda says as she steps into the break room cautiously. It’s exactly the way someone would greet a family of raccoons who has overtaken their trashcan. “Any coffee left?”

I practically leap backwards, while Ryan stays coolly in place. That stupid smirk is right there, tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Morning, Linda. There’s a fresh pot here with your name on it,” Ryan says as he grabs Linda’s mallard coffee mug from the shelf and pours her a cup.

After saying a quick hello to Linda, I use this opportunity to retreat to my office.

If there’s one thing that annoys me about Ryan Ehler above all else, it’s the fact that he is perfectly nice to absolutely everyone…

except for me. There isn’t a single person in Gatlinburg, Tennessee who he doesn’t seem to charm the pants right off from.

And for someone whose life appears to be an endless string of pantless encounters of the single night variety, this seems like a particularly impressive achievement.

I’ll give him that much, I guess. Although I don’t really mean it as a compliment.

_____

Thirty minutes later, an email alert from Ryan pops up in the corner of my screen: “Here’s the approved PO from procurement. Make sure the vendor gets this before you leave today.”

“Will do,” I type back. This is the professional middle-ground between ‘thanks’ and ‘shut up.’

When I scroll down the email chain, I see an exchange between Ryan and the procurement manager time-stamped minutes after our break room staring contest. It’s dripping with his sickening brand of charm, of course. I’m sure the photo of him next to his signature line didn’t hurt his case either.

It’s just another way for Ryan to drive home his point that I do not belong here. That I could never do this job as well as he does.

Another email pops up a minute later and I sigh at Ryan’s name on my screen. The message reads: “Printed out the orientation packet you wanted. Pick it up whenever.”

I might as well get this over with. Maybe then I can spend the rest of the day blissfully Ryan-free.

He barely glances up at me when I enter his office. His eyes are still fixed on his computer monitor as he motions toward the file folder sitting at the far corner of his desk. When I reach for it, there’s the strangest scratching sound, like instant rice being poured out of a chipboard box.

And then there’s something dripping down the front of me.

I look down, but it takes a second to identify the sparkly flecks covering my crotch.

Glitter.

It’s fucking glitter, and it looks just like a unicorn peed my pants.