A flicker—not quite a smile, but something warmer. "Better. At least you're honest." He set the axe against a stump, blade first. "I'm Leo. I maintain the trails. And the wood. And sometimes the plumbing when Bodhi's 'energy work' doesn't unclog a drain."
"I have a cast-iron pan and a cabin that doesn't have any windows facing the lodge." He tilted his head toward a narrow path leading down into the trees. "Dinner's at seven. If you want to stop hiding and actually be somewhere for once."
In the sharp, clean crack of an axe meeting wood—and something inside her finally breaking open.
"I prefer my vegetables with some aggression. Roasted. Maybe charred." -VRBangers- Veronica Leal - Zen Getaway
She rounded a bend and froze.
Not literally, of course. The walls were floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking an emerald abyss. But the silence was too loud. The kale smoothies were too green. And the meditation sessions, led by a man named Bodhi who smelled of patchouli and self-satisfaction, felt like a performance.
"Whatever the forest gives me. And maybe some steak I have hidden in a freezer Bodhi doesn't know about." A flicker—not quite a smile, but something warmer
Veronica should have said no. Should have cited the retreat's schedule, the "commitment to presence," the thousand-dollar-a-night fee she was wasting. Instead, she heard herself say: "What are we eating?"
"Trail ends past here," he said. His voice was low, roughened by something other than chanting. "Mudslide took the bridge last week."
And when he finally turned, a plate in each hand, and looked at her— really looked, past the armor and the itinerary and the carefully curated life—Veronica realized she hadn't thought about her phone once. "I'm Leo
She smiled the tight smile of a woman who had built a seven-figure career on not softening. "Maybe I came here to breathe," she replied, and walked toward the waterfall trail.
A man was splitting firewood. But not like any groundskeeper she'd ever seen. He was shirtless, his skin the color of rain-darkened bark, every muscle moving in deliberate, hydraulic sequence. Dark hair clung to his brow. His jaw was set with a concentration that had nothing to do with mindfulness and everything to do with physics. When the axe bit through the log— crack —a pulse of something hot and utterly non-Zen shot through Veronica's chest.
He looked up.