Jax Hale leans against the scuffed oak bar at The Timberline Tap, calloused fingers curled around a cold pint of local amber ale. He’s 58, spent 28 years as a US Forest Service hotshot crew supervisor before his knees gave out, now runs a small organic maple syrup operation on 42 acres of hardwood outside Traverse City. A scar snaking up his left bicep peeks out from the cuff of his faded Carhartt flannel, a souvenir from a 2019 Sierra Nevada blaze he’d led a crew through. He’s avoided the new county extension agent for three straight weeks, ever since she’d tracked him down at his sugar shack to ask him to lead a 4H workshop on sustainable syrup production, and he’d walked away from the conversation with his ears hot and a stupid, long-dormant flutter in his chest he’d written off as indigestion.
He’s here for trivia, same as every Tuesday, planning to fly solo as usual, until the host claps his hands and announces all teams will be random draw tonight, a fundraiser for the local volunteer fire department. Jax’s name gets pulled paired with Clara Voss, the 38-year-old extension agent he’s been dodging. She slides into the vinyl booth across from him first, then shifts to sit next to him when the host drops off a stack of answer sheets, her wool coat brushing his arm, the scent of lavender lotion and pine from her day spent surveying Christmas tree farms wrapping around him soft as smoke. She grins, the corner of her mouth tilted up in a way that makes his chest tight, and says she’s been trying to corner him for weeks, that the 4H kids have been begging to meet the ex-hotshot who makes the best syrup in the county. He mumbles something about being busy tapping lines, avoids eye contact, tells himself he’s being a ridiculous old fool, that she’s just doing her job, that the last thing he needs is to mess around with someone 20 years his junior and get his heart broken again like his ex did when she left him for a Florida real estate broker 12 years prior.
They fly through the first three rounds. She nails every 90s indie rock and children’s literature question, he crushes the sports and outdoor survival categories, and by the final round they’re tied for first with a table of college kids home for fall break. When the server drops off a plate of loaded nachos between them, they both reach for the same cheese-dusted chip at the same time, their fingers brushing for three full beats before she pulls her hand back, her cheeks pink, holding eye contact with him long enough that he has to look away first, his neck hot under his flannel collar. He’s fighting the pull so hard his jaw aches, half disgusted with himself for even noticing how her jeans fit tight across her thighs, how she tucks her hair behind her ear every time she’s thinking through a question, half hungry for something he hasn’t let himself want in over a decade.
The final question hits: name the minimum safe distance for a control line around a residential structure during a low-intensity prescribed burn in northern hardwood forest. Jax writes down the answer without hesitation, 30 feet, and they win by a single point, the bar cheering as the host hands them a $100 bar tab certificate. Clara cheers so loud she leans into him, her chest pressing against his shoulder, her hair tickling his jaw, and she whispers in his ear, warm breath fanning across his neck, that she doesn’t care about the tab, she wants him to take her to the 24-hour diner down the street for peach pie, and she knows he’s been avoiding her, and she doesn’t care that he’s 20 years older, that she thinks he’s the most interesting man in this whole quiet, frozen county.
Jax freezes for half a second, then laughs, a rough, rusty sound he hasn’t pulled out in years, and shoves the tab certificate into the jar on the bar for the fire department fundraiser. He grabs his coat off the back of the booth, holds the door open for her, the sharp October air stinging his cheeks when they step outside. She slips her hand into his, her palm warm even through the worn leather of his work glove, her fingers lacing through his easy like they’ve been doing it for years. He’d stashed a jar of his best small-batch syrup, tapped off his oldest 120-year-old sugar maple, on the passenger seat of his truck that morning, a dumb, impulsive gesture he’d been too embarrassed to follow through on before. He pulls the truck door open for her, the sweet, earthy scent of that syrup drifting out to wrap around both of them when the warm cab air hits the crisp fall cold.
