Help Paige gather her things

“Let me help you with those bags,” you say, your voice dropping into that familiar, commanding rumble as you step over a shattered lamp to retrieve Paige’s intact duffel bag.

Lauren offers Paige a warm, reassuring smile, her cheeks still dusted with that delicate, nervous flush. “I’m going to head back up to the cabin and whip us up some lunch. You must be starving, Paige. Take your time, Mark will bring you right up.”

With a soft nod, Lauren slips out of the ruined room. You watch her retreat for a fraction of a second, appreciating the sway of her hips, before turning your attention back to the petite videographer. Paige is on her knees, carefully rescuing her expensive camera lenses from the debris, her hyper-vigilant energy thrumming through the air. You stand above her for a moment, letting your eyes trace the curve of her back under that blanket.

“Got everything that matters?” you ask, reaching down to offer her a hand.

She takes it, her small hand swallowed by your large, calloused grip. “Yeah. Thank god she didn’t touch my gear. If she smashed my red-line lenses, I’d probably be the one going to jail today.”

“Good. Let’s get the hell out of here,” you say, slinging her duffel bag over one broad shoulder while carrying her equipment case in the other.

The walk back to your private cabin is quiet, the serene beauty of the Whispering Pines spring landscape completely jarring compared to the chaos you just left behind. When you push open the door of your home, the rich scent of garlic and simmering herbs wafts from the kitchen where Lauren is already at work.

You lead Paige down the hallway, past the master suite, and open the door to the guest room. It’s a masterclass in rustic luxury, a massive plush bed with crisp white linens, exposed cedar beams, and a private stone-tiled bathroom visible through an open door.

Paige stops in her tracks, her hazel eyes widening as she takes it in. “Wow... Mark, this is incredible. It looks like a magazine.”

You set her bags down on the luggage rack and turn to face her, leaning casually against the doorframe, crossing your arms over your chest. A roguish grin tugs at the corner of your lips.

“Listen, don’t sweat the disaster downstairs,” you say, a low chuckle escaping you. “Believe it or not, this isn’t even the worst a guest has treated that cabin.”

Paige blinks, a curious, amused smile tugging at her lips. “Seriously? Someone did worse than slashing a mattress to pieces?”

“Oh, by a mile,” you laugh, shaking your head at the memory. “A few years back, I made the mistake of letting an aging punk band from the Warped Tour rent out the entire ridge for a week. By day three, they had literally kicked a hole through the living room drywall, spray-painted the master bath neon green, and somehow managed to get a riding lawnmower stuck on the roof. Compared to those degenerates, Skylar’s little temper tantrum is amateur hour.”

Paige bursts out laughing, a genuine, unburdened sound that brings a bright spark to her eyes. “A lawnmower on the roof? Okay, yeah, I guess a ruined mattress isn’t the end of the world.”

“Exactly,” you say, your eyes locking onto hers for a lingering moment, letting the warmth of the room settle between you. “Now, make yourself at home. I’m going to excuse myself for a few minutes to call our premium cleanup crew and get them on the clock, on Jax’s dime, of course. Wash up, relax, and come out whenever you’re ready. Lunch will be on the table.”