by Lindsey Hart
“I’m actually not hungry. Too many barley sandwiches.”
“What? Oh, the beers.” Steph giggles. “I’ve never heard it called that before.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Okay, well, I was just asking because I thought you might be hungry. Have to take care of you now that you’re an invalid.”
“I drove us to get these beers. I’m not an invalid.”
“You probably shouldn’t go to sleep. You might have a concussion. Should I call for a cab to come to get you? An ambulance? Maybe I should ride along with you in case they have questions, and you pass out.”
“I’m fine.”
“Ugh,” she huffs. “Fine.”
The tent falls into silence. Outside, I can hear the whine of furious mosquitoes trying to get in—I think we killed all the ones that managed to get in here when we opened the tent flap to dive in—and the noises of people talking and laughing at the campsites around us.
“I really wish you would have just rented a cabin.” Steph faces the tent flap. She’s not even looking at me.
“You know, I’m over her. I know I’ve never told you that before, but this isn’t about getting her back. It isn’t about making her jealous.”
“What?” Steph’s head cranks around like a curious owl. God, that’s some pretty crazy shit right there. “Are you drunk right now, or did you hit your head super hard? Or both?”
Maybe I’m drunker than I thought. I didn’t mean to blurt that out. I believe in being honest, but being transparent is another thing entirely. Unlike Steph, I do have a filter, and I make good use of it. I’m not great at expressing my feelings. I don’t just talk about the shit I keep stored deep down, mostly because I’d like it to stay down there, buried far away, never to see the light of day again.
“It wasn’t that I didn’t move on. Two years is a long time. I just didn’t want to date.”
Steph picks up her beer and drinks a sip. She keeps the can in her hand and studies it with intense concentration. “You never said you were over her. I just thought, uh, that you…that you weren’t. So, what do you mean that’s not what this is about? This is really just about you proving to her that you’ve got game then?”
“Man skills. Not game. I don’t even know what that means. I’m not cool like you.”
“You never talked about it. Being over, I mean. Not specifically like that.”
“That’s because I didn’t want to.”
“So why now?”
“Because I don’t want you to think that’s what this is about. I wanted you to be a fake girlfriend because…because I wanted to prove I was doing fine. That I could take care of myself and someone else, that I could do manly shit like camping, and that someone wanted me even when she didn’t.”
“Adam…I keep telling you—”
“I know.” I finish off the last of my beer and decide I don’t need another. I just grip the can because it’s nice to have something to hold onto when you’re talking about humiliating shit.
“So, how do you know you’re over her?”
“There’s this saying about counting the ways…anyway, uh, I guess I know because I don’t think about the good times anymore. I don’t want to hold on to that. I let it all go, the good stuff. It’s the bad stuff that lingers like a disgusting aftertaste. I just wish I could let it all go. I can’t stop thinking about all the things I was blamed for, wondering if I should have done this or that differently.”
“You shouldn’t have to. Think about it. If it wasn’t right, letting go of it all was the best choice.” Steph drops her gaze. “I’m drunk. Don’t listen to me.”
“Drunk or buzzed?”
“Buzzed, I guess.”
“Then I want to hear what you have to say.”
She sighs this epic sigh that shakes the tent’s canvas walls. Or maybe because the tent is starting to swim around me. Maybe it’s not the beer. Maybe it’s my head injury.
“I think you should fight for it like what everyone says. You should try and grow and change together, but ultimately it’s up to both people to do that, not just one person. And one person can’t take all the blame if something fails. You should want to be the best you can be for you, but also for the other person because they bring it out in you naturally. Because they deserve all that goodness, but also because they’re giving you their damn level best too. Everyone says you can lose love, but I don’t really believe that. I just don’t think most people actually know what love even is. I don’t know. Maybe that’s too idealistic, and maybe that’s why I’m still single and have no hope of not being single.”
“That’s not idealistic.” I want to say more, but the words won’t come.
Steph shrugs. “So, why haven’t you dated?”
“There are lots of things to consider. It’s not a matter of just wanting to meet someone or not wanting to. It’s not even about putting yourself out there or not. You know I have the company to consider. And a lot of other things to consider.”
“I think fair is fair, and if someone’s entitled to half of something because they worked their ass off too, then that’s right. But in a lot of cases, man or woman, someone gets taken to the cleaners, and that’s shit.”
“Yeah, well…” I cough. “I guess that’s why I haven’t dated. Mainly to protect the company. A lot of people have jobs there, and they rely on the company to make their living. We work hard to make a difference in communities and in the world, everywhere. So, I guess that’s my reason.”
“That’s a pretty valid reason. But also, it’s because you didn’t want to be used.”
“Yeah,” I admit grudgingly. “That too.” Obviously. I don’t know anyone who wants to sign up to be used. I know there are probably people out there who would be up for it if the circumstances were right, but not me.
“I’ve told you a million, billion, gazillion times that you have nothing to prove,” Steph laments. “When are you going to believe me?” She’s waving her beer can around. Her cheeks are flushed, and her lips are pursed. She’s so freaking beautiful.
“Maybe because you just think that,” I fire back, but gently. Softly. There’s too much truth in it.
Steph leans in. Her eyes aren’t blurry or unfocused or anything. She looks completely sober. She looks so completely beautiful. We have a camping lantern thing on the floor off to the side, and under that light, under any light really, she looks like a mystical goddess of the night, with her dark eyes shining and her dark hair illuminated and glowing. The shadows and the light combine and dance over her face, sharpening every single feature and detail like her flawless creamy skin and her full lips, which are the perfect shade of pink. Not too rosy or pale. And not to forget, the tiny upturn of her nose at the end, the sharpness of her cheekbones, and the wonderful symmetry of her jawline.
I know I’m going too far. And I’m definitely leaning in too far. Too close. How did I get this close? Our faces are now just inches apart. Why are our faces so close?
“Maybe I just think that?” she reiterates softly. “Isn’t what I think worth something?”
“Of course, it is.” I brush back an errant strand of hair to join the others she’s already tucked behind the sweet shell of her ear. She has beautiful ears. Tiny and petite, like the rest of her.
I lean a little closer, and she leans in like she can’t hear me. I know she can because she has to be able to; she’s that close. Her breath hits my cheek, and I’m sure mine is hitting hers too. There’s some weird breathing chain going on.
She doesn’t pull away, and she doesn’t give me my space like she usually does. She’s still there, waiting. I realize I should do something. As in, lean back or man up and take a chance. Find out if this is worth the risk. But, of course, it’s worth the risk. It is because this is Steph. This is Steph, and she’s beautiful, patient, kind, smart beyond belief, capable, generous, and strong. I could use a thousand other words to describe her, but my brain pretty much shorts out, and other bits of an
atomy take over. Yeah, it’s not my big toe or my elbow that’s doing the thinking now—urging me to kiss her.
“Oh, for goodness sakes,” Steph mutters.
Her sweet, gentle, warm, and tiny hands cup my cheeks, and she drags my face the rest of the way to hers. Soft lips meet mine, hungry, demanding, insistent, wonderful, and scalding. It’s also as ferocious as the snake that just about did me in today and all those bears she keeps going on about.
She kisses me like she’s the one who has something to prove—that good things come in small packages. Good god, I’m just going to stop thinking and instead, enjoy every single second of this because I’m buzzed, and my head hurts. And just for once, I’d like to think about something other than the company, the wreckage of my divorce, and my life before that.
CHAPTER 7
Stephanie
Whoa. Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa. Am I really kissing Adam? Boss Adam or Wilderness Adam, they’re one and the same. And I’m kissing him, kissing Adam. Right. Now.
My lips are on his, moving against his. His tongue is right there, at the seam of mine, which constitutes a kiss. He tastes like beer, which isn’t gross, and something oddly spicy, a nice spicy like cinnamon or nutmeg with an overriding undercurrent of something else that is deep and manly, which is overwhelmingly delicious. He sure knows what he’s doing. This kiss is going to haunt me forever. It’s one of those kisses you don’t come back from.
“Whoa,” I breathe into his mouth. “Whoa.” I set a hand on his chest, and it’s all solid and muscly. It doesn’t even feel like a real human chest. There is no give there at all.
“Whoa?” He pauses, his lips pressed up against mine. “You’re drunk, I’m sorry. This was wrong.”
“No!” I grip the back of his head. I kiss him frantically, so the crazy wild heat starts ripping through my veins again. I reluctantly pull away to try to explain what I’m thinking. “No. I just, if you’re trying to make sense of the past and put your life in order, this is hardly the way to do it. I’m pretty sure this is exactly the way to make a mess out of a lot of things, mostly right now and the future. And when that comes around, this will be the past, and there will be all this room for regret.”
Adam’s hand sweeps up my bare arm, and a shit pile of goosebumps accompanies the burning touch. I lean in, melting against him. His lips move against mine tenderly, softly, drawing me in, sipping me, and drinking me like I’m an actual beverage.
“You’re really sweet,” I gasp into his mouth. “You shouldn’t say those things about yourself. You shouldn’t even think of them. All those things…I hate how you hurt yourself like that. You’re kind of perfect. And I wish you knew that.”
“Just kind of?”
“Just kind of.”
He deepens the kiss, and I angle my head to let him. I tangle my fingers in his hair—hair that is so freaking soft. I know exactly where he gets it cut because I book the appointments, and I know what product he uses because I order it. I just had no idea it was this soft before. It’s like some really expensive form of exotic silk. Not that I’d know what that feels like. It’s like closing my eyes and running my hands through paradise. Yeah, that’s more apt.
“You know,” I pant, dropping my face so I can pepper his jaw with kisses. There’s some stubble there, just a bit, and it burns my lips in the most tantalizing way. I flip my tongue out and lick him, and yes, it burns too. It makes other things burn, other places, namely my secret places. Damn it, it makes my hoo-ha burn, and I’m not sure that’s good, considering who I’m kissing.
“I know what?” Adam asks huskily right next to my ear. His warm breath makes me shiver.
“You know that being all manly with all those manly skills is overrated. I think you have all the skills that count.”
“You mean putting my tongue in your mouth?”
“I mean how much you care,” I state flatly. I nip the edge of his jawline. “How you’re a decent human being in a sea of overall shittiness.”
“I’m not—”
“You’re not this or that or blah, blah, blah. Well, you don’t have to be that, or this, or anything. I’m sure you’ve had a ton of pressure to succeed in a ton of different ways, but believe me, I think you’re there. Who gives a shit about the rest?”
“Have you ever heard that money doesn’t make you happy?” Adam’s hand grips my waist, and I whimper at his touch. It’s just my hip, but he could go places with that hand, and I’m already ready. Oh my god, am I ready.
“That’s a lie.” I lick at the base of his throat and kiss it tenderly while his hand sweeps up, over the top of my shirt. He stops just shy of my breast. They might not be that big, but they do have lots of sensation, and my nipples, which are hard as freaking rocks, kind of wish he’d continue on with the path he’s plotting out over my body. “I know for a fact that money buys a lot of really enjoyable things.”
“You know what makes me happy?”
I squirm under his touch, trying to angle my breast into his palm. The desperate pounding between my thighs turns into audible thunder. But wait, I think that’s real thunder out there. Either that or my va-jay is very rumbly and loud with her demands. Loud enough for the entire campground to hear.
“What?” I gather my bravery and run my hand up Adam’s arm. It’s not an erotic spot to touch, but heck yeah, it sure feels like it. I love the way his muscles bunch under his skin, the feel of his raised veins, the smooth man hairs, and the satin of his skin covering all the complicated perfection below.
“This. You.” I hear that, and I melt into him a little more. Utter bonelessness is happening. How can it not? That’s a really sweet thing to say. He keeps it going, his voice like velvet, wrapping me up and flowing through me until it feels like I’m going to float away. “The fact that you can talk like this while we’re doing this. That you’re always decidedly you, and you don’t apologize for it.”
“Deep down, I’m insecure, too, you know.” I reach for his shoulder and let my fingers sink into his soft, organic t-shirt. It’s a blend of hemp and bamboo, which I know because I happened to purchase it for him at this little boutique downtown. I was out doing some other errands, and the place looked cool. I saw it and thought he’d like it.
“Deep down, I want you to touch me.”
I choke, but then laughter bubbles up in my throat. I try and hold it back, but of course, it’s impossible. It escapes as a hysterical, giddy kind of giggle. Once it’s out, it’s echoed by a clap of thunder above. This one sounds closer, louder. It echoes through me just like Adam’s words, reverberating straight down to my center.
Is there a storm going to happen out there? I seriously hope not. I don’t think a tent is a great place to be in a storm. What about the storm going on in here? What about Adam’s hand finally cupping my breast or how my body automatically reacts, thrusting itself into his palm. Now it’s not laughter escaping. It’s a low moan of pleasure. Adam finds my nipple and gently circles it with his index finger and plies it with his thumb. How pathetic am I that even through the material of my shirt and bra, I feel like I’m going to die from just that touch alone.
Jesus, it’s been a while.
“Are you hers, or are you yours?” I gasp out. I nuzzle Adam’s cheek with my cheek right after, as a half-apology for blurting something like that out. He’s right. I really don’t have a filter. Or apparently, any common sense. I wouldn’t be surprised if he left right now.
He doesn’t leave, but he does tense. His hand stills on my breast, and his body becomes rigid. Even his breath stops against my cheek. But then he whispers something right next to my ear. “I’m mine.”
I desperately want to ask if he’ll be mine, just for tonight. Or maybe, just for another few minutes because my body is entirely and pathetically, needy and wanton, and since it’s been so long, it will probably take me all of two seconds, one glance, one word, and one touch—not necessarily in that order—to get there.
For once, I swallow back the wor
ds that shouldn’t find an exit. I hang on to them, knowing I can never speak them. I can never let them out. This is just a fluke. We’re two lonely and buzzed people who know each other well, and that’s all this is. I won’t let it get further than things done above clothes. I won’t have a whole pile of regrets in the morning because of the complications it could cause. I’m only here because I work for Adam, and he’s paying me for this. He’s only here because, apparently, he needs to make a point. I guess maybe it’s not to get his ex-wife back. That last part makes me deliriously happy in ways it shouldn’t.
If we keep it above clothes, it will be easy to pass off some drunk touching as what it is and just forget about it. Or at least to say I’ll forget because I know I’ll never forget. I’ll never forget a single second or a single detail.
Overhead, there’s another ominous grumble, but I take Adam’s face in my palms again and kiss him wildly and deeply, ignoring the storm outside and going full force for the one in here. If there’s going to be any regrets come morning, I want to make them worth it.
CHAPTER 8
Adam
I could argue with myself about who kissed who, but I won’t because it doesn’t matter. The point is, Steph is kissing me back. And she’s a good kisser. She makes me feel like I am too. Those little moans and whimpers and her body’s response to my touch make me feel like…like…uh…like I might actually be decent at this. I refuse to consider the fact that maybe she just hasn’t been with anyone decent. Why do I always doubt myself? She’s right. I should stop the constant badgering of myself. The striving for something I’ll never achieve. The desire to be perfect in every single thing I ever try to do.
“Are you sure?” I rasp as she breaks away to catch her breath.
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
“I just…are you pretending to enjoy this? Or am I just some really sad second best?”