Page 6

TORACK

I don’t like surprises. They usually mean fire, lawsuits, or elves whining about their dietary restrictions again.

But this morning, walking into the camp’s makeshift HQ, I get hit with one that doesn’t make my teeth itch. It makes me pause.

Julie.

She’s in the center of the storm, headset around her neck, hair tied up like she’s been through three crises already—and won all of them.

She’s got clipboards hanging off her arm like armor, and she’s mid-argument with a twelve foot tall troll delivery driver who looks like he’d rather face a banshee than contradict her again.

“No, I don’t care what the manifest said ,” she snaps. “Those folding chairs were meant for the arts cabin. Not the canteen. There’s a whole difference between crafts and carbs.”

The troll nods like his life depends on it, hauling the chairs toward the right spot.

Julie spots me, points a pen at me like it’s a weapon. “You’re late.”

I blink. “Didn’t realize I had a curfew.”

“I gave you a verbal one. Yesterday. During the plumbing review.” She taps her toe like a frustrated mother who’s said this too many times.

“Did you now? I don’t recall giving an assistant that level of authority. Besides, I was distracted by the fact our toilets might drain into the faerie glade. I have priorities, you see.”

“That’s a tomorrow problem,” she says. “Today’s problem is getting three investors seated in the correct quadrant without offending anyone’s political ancestry.”

As I ready a retort about who’s job that is, I step in fully, eyeing the setup. A folding table with blueprints, colored tabs, labeled folders, three walkie-talkies, and a pot of very black coffee. Not the sterile efficiency of a city office, but not far off either.

“You made all this?” I ask, genuinely impressed.

She glances over her shoulder, shrugging. “Someone had to. You were off handling fire code updates and fighting Groth over waterproof shingles.”

“He was trying to use mushroom spores as filler.”

“Biodegradable doesn’t mean structural .”

I chuckle despite myself. “You’re scary when you’re like this.” And I admit, quietly, that impresses me.

She smirks. “Like what?”

“Efficient. Organized. Vicious.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” she says, walking past me to grab another stack of papers. “I only go for the jugular when people bring me decaf.”

My eyes follow her as she moves. It’s involuntary. Shorts today—practical, rugged, good for climbing over fencing or, apparently, climbing up my thoughts. She’s got a scratch behind one knee and mud caked on her boots, but she’s commanding this space like she’s royalty.

Seems the city girl is adapting.

Took her long enough.

“Stop staring at me,” she says without looking up.

I freeze. “Wasn’t.”

“You were.”

“You’re imagining things.”

She finally looks at me, lips twitching. “You’re very bad at denial.”

I clear my throat, flip the top folder. “Did you seriously prepare allergy profiles for all the investors?”

“Do you want to explain to the centaur from Finway why he’s seizing in the clover patch because of your tuna wraps?”

“You’re scary and thorough. A terrifying combination.”

She beams. “Thank you.”

And damn if I don’t feel something tug in my chest. Not the usual weight. Something lighter. Restless.

“I didn’t think this would be your thing,” I admit. “This camp. The dirt. The chaos.”

Julie pauses. Her fingers linger on the edge of the coffee pot. “Honestly, I didn’t either. But... I like it. There’s something about it. It’s messy. But it matters.”

“It does.”

She looks at me for a second too long. “And you matter to it.”

I feel those words settle deeper than they should. I’m used to people wanting my money. My approval. My logistics. Not... me. Not like that.

A knock on the doorframe cuts the moment.

Renault steps in, as dramatic as a curtain call.

“Julie, darling, I simply must know—have you arranged for a shaded seating area? I’m not about to subject myself to woodland UV exposure.”

Julie doesn’t miss a beat. “You’re at table C. Left side, under the birch tree, with a parasol and a misting charm.”

He blinks. “You misted my chair?”

“Just the chair,” she says innocently. “You’ll have to bring your own ego cooler.”

Renault gives a tight smile. “Delightful.”

Once he’s gone, Julie turns to me with a sigh. “He keeps calling me ‘darling.’ If he does it one more time, I might become a criminal.”

I take a step closer. “He calls you that because he knows you’re the only one here with an actual grip on the project. Fae folk love buttering people up before they strike.”

“Well, I’ll keep that in mind.” She turns to me and raises a brow. “And you?”

I shrug. “I don’t call you that because I think you’d throw me into the compost bin.”

Julie laughs—real, full. “That’s fair.”

There’s another pause. She tugs at her shirt collar. The tent’s stuffy. Or maybe it’s just the proximity.

“You’re good at this,” I say finally.

Her voice softens. “I want it to work. Not just for the paycheck. For the kids. For what it means.”

I nod, and for some reason, I want to touch her. Just her hand. Her wrist. Something to ground me. I don’t. I just hold her gaze a second longer than necessary.

“Are you planning to take over the whole camp?” I ask.

“Depends,” she says. “You gonna stop me?”

I shake my head slowly. “I’m starting to think I’d rather watch.”

She blinks. Her mouth opens. Then closes again.

I turn to the table. “Now hand me the layout. We’ve got fifteen minutes before the first investor lands.”

“Right.” Her voice wavers slightly. “Fifteen. I can do fifteen.”

“Of course you can,” I murmur.

And as I watch her move, papers rustling, boots scuffing across the wooden floor, I realize something I hadn’t before.

Julie Wren isn’t just keeping this camp running.

She’s starting to run circles around me .

And I’m not sure I mind one damn bit.