Page 36 of Mountain Boss

Though I would think he’d want to at least check my work. Or ask what I did at the end of the day…

But maybe he has been checking and just hasn’t said anything about it.

“I’ll take you over there now.” Fisher stands.

“Okay, thanks.” I twist to the side to lift my leg over the bench, and a groan of pain escapes my throat before I can stop it.

Simpson, who is still seated, snickers. “You’re working too hard. It took Marty three days just to get started on one of those clipboard items. By my count, you’ve already crossed out a few.”

I pause, straddling the bench. “Oh.”

It’s good to know that the bar is set low if Marty’s speed was acceptable.

And it’s just for me to know that most of my pain comes from sleeping on a wooden bunk, not from the work I’ve done.

Keeping the rest of my groans internal, I get to my feet and put my plate in the dishwasher before following Fisher out.

“So.” He slows his long stride to match mine. “How’s the first couple days going?”

I open my mouth, then close it and purse my lips.

This guy seems chill, but they were all acting casual at lunch, so I don’t know how much I should share.

Fisher laughs. “Aww, it can’t be that bad.”

Not wanting to get in trouble for talking poorly about the job, I shake my head. “No, no, it’s going well.”

He chuckles again. “You don’t gotta lie on my behalf, Court.”

I eye Fisher as we keep walking, then sigh. “It really is fine. I just don’t know how I’m doing.”

Fisher tilts his head. “What do you mean?”

“I didn’t really get any… direction. Beyond telling me to make the morning coffee, Mr. Black hasn’t told me what he expects.” I give him the truth, if not all of it.

“Mr. Black?” Fisher chokes on those words. “Did Sterling really tellyou to call him that?”

We’re approaching the driveway, about to cross right in front of the home of the man in question, so I lower my voice. “I didn’t even know his namewasSterling until someone said it at lunch.”

Fisher reaches a hand up and rubs the back of his neck.

Great. I made it uncomfortable.

“How long have you worked here?” I change the topic.

“Five years,” Fisher says with pride.

As we approach the building behind my cabin, he tells me about graduating from college but not knowing what to do with his degree. How he knew a guy who came to Black Mountain Lodge for a fishing retreat. How he himself loves fishing. And how he came here, knocked on Sterling’s front door, and asked to be considered for a guide position.

Fisher opens the door to the shed after typing in the same lock combo as the Food Hall.

“And he just hired you?” I ask, stepping into the space that’s more of a garage than a shed.

“Not exactly.” He snorts. “But I wore him down.”

I hum, wondering if he was also forced to sleep on the board in the laundry room.

As I wander around the Storage Shed—circling the large cluster of shelving in the middle of the space—Fisher explains about the guests. How sometimes there’s just one cabin’s worth of people at a time, and sometimes every bunk is full.

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