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JULIE

T he gravel crunches under my city-loaned flats as I step out of the charter van, and I swear, the air here smells like pine, dirt, and intimidation.

Camp Lightring stretches out in front of me like a half-finished dream: wooden cabins with scaffolding still clinging to them like clingy exes, and giant construction machines scattered across the grounds like forgotten toys from a very ambitious toddler.

I clutch my leather-bound planner against my chest like it might block UV rays or orc stares. My blazer is too stiff, my blouse too tucked, and my hair’s already protesting the mountain humidity by frizzing at the temples. Great first impression material.

“Julie?” a voice calls behind me. Male. Low. Firm. Oh, no.

I pivot and almost trip over the gravel.

My eyes climb—yes, climb —up the massive frame of the man stepping out of the black SUV.

He’s green. Of course, I knew he’d be green, but knowing it and seeing it are two different things.

His tusks curve like polished ivory out of his lower jaw, his dark hair pulled back into a low knot.

His shoulders look wide enough to block out the sun.

“Y-Yes. Julie Wren. Secretary to Mister Torack. That’s… you.” I extend my hand too fast. “I mean, you’re Mister Torack. Sir.”

He raises an eyebrow—hazel eyes, surprisingly warm—and his gaze flicks from my outstretched hand to my perfectly typed itinerary still clutched in my other arm.

“I know who I hired,” he says, shaking my hand. His grip is firm but not crushing. “You’re punctual.”

Oh thank God, something I can win at.

“I try to be,” I say with a breathy laugh, already mentally logging his tone, his stance, his demeanor. There’s nothing in my notes about how handsome he’d be, or how much he radiates that dangerous mix of alpha and exhausted dad.

“Lillian,” he says, turning slightly. “Come here, please.”

From the back seat of the SUV, a small girl hops out—green-skinned, blue-eyed, and carrying a glittery notebook with a unicorn drawn on the cover. Her gaze flicks to me, then away, then back, assessing.

“Hi,” she says, flatly.

I crouch a little. “Hi, Lillian. I’m Julie. I’ll be helping your dad get everything ready here. You’re kind of the boss around here, huh?”

She frowns. “He said he’s the boss.”

Torack sighs. “Let’s not argue semantics on day one.”

I chuckle nervously and stand. “We should probably get started. I’ve reviewed the parcel plans, and I have your investor’s meeting notes scheduled for three. The welcome center—well, the skeleton of it—looks like it’s close enough to set up a makeshift office.”

Torack gives me a side-eye. “Already planning to set up camp before camp’s even open.”

I shrug. “That’s why you hired me.”

His lips twitch. I think he might be smiling.

By noon, my blazer’s off, my hair’s up, and I’ve re-pinned the whiteboard three times because the wind keeps knocking it over. The temporary “office” is actually the future arts and crafts cabin with sawhorses for a desk and a hot plate for coffee.

I’m re-reading the supply drop form when the door creaks open.

“I need to go to the bathroom,” Lillian declares.

I blink. “Right. Of course. Um… does the site have porta?—”

“There’s a grove of trees.”

“Oh.”

She tilts her head. “You don’t know anything about the woods, do you?”

“I once got lost in Central Park.”

She rolls her eyes and disappears, and I decide this is fine. Normal. Not terrifying at all.

“Julie.”

I jump. Torack’s voice fills the space like thunder in a teacup.

“Hi. Yes. I was just going over the?—”

He holds up a paper bag. “Lunch.”

“Oh.” I blink. “You… brought me lunch?”

“I brought lunch. There was extra.”

I take the bag like it’s some sacred artifact and peek inside. Sandwich. Apple. Water bottle. Napkin folded into a perfect square. Huh.

“I, uh, really appreciate it.”

He leans against the open door frame. The sunlight casts a gold line down his jaw.

“You’re not what I expected,” he says.

My heart skips. “Is that… a bad thing?”

“Not necessarily.”

There’s a silence that stretches longer than it should. I fidget with the bag, then pull out the sandwich.

“I’m used to people underestimating me,” I say finally. “Or giving me the coffee intern duties and saying it’s ‘great experience.’ I’m not here to fetch lunch or babysit your daughter.”

He crosses his arms, tusks gleaming. “Did I say you were?”

“No,” I admit. “But I’ve interned with enough rich guys to recognize the signs.”

“I’m not like most rich guys,” he says simply.

That’s true. Most rich guys don’t have battle scars on their forearms and speak like they’ve been told too many times to quiet down.

“You know,” I say, “You could’ve held this camp opening in the city. Somewhere safe. Predictable. Air-conditioned.”

“Then it wouldn’t be real,” he says. “Kids don’t change in safe places. They grow when they get scraped knees and see stars.”

My throat tightens. Damn. That’s a better line than I’ve ever written for a pitch deck.

I nod. “Okay. But if a centaur trips on uneven gravel because we skipped accessibility compliance, I’m blaming you.”

He laughs—really laughs. It’s low and rumbles through the room like a warm earthquake.

“I’ll take the hit,” he says.

I open the sandwich, bite into it, and chew slowly.

“So,” I say between bites, “when do the real monsters show up?”

He gives me a sideways look. “You mean the kids, or the investors?”

“Both.”

After lunch, I watch him walk away toward the cabins. Lillian runs to catch up, grabbing his hand without asking. He lets her.

And something in my chest squeezes.

I’m not sure if it’s envy or admiration, but either way, I’m here. Camp Lightring is happening. It’s messy, it’s loud, it smells like sweat and sawdust and maybe possibility. And I’m not gonna screw this up.

I gather my planner, adjust my bun, and head out toward the mess hall frame. Time to organize chaos.