Touching Down

by Nicole Williams

  Charlie linked arms with her dad, nudging him. “Hey, it’s in my blood.”

  He just shook his head as we headed toward where we’d all parked. After giving Carson directions to the diner, Grant made sure Charlie buckled up and Carson checked his mirrors ten times before letting them pull away. He didn’t stop watching the car until it had turned down the road.

  “Come on. You’ll feel better after a milkshake and a greasy burger.” I patted his arm as he approached the old truck he and his dad had worked on.

  “I’ll feel better if you climb on my lap and give me a repeat of what you did to me last night.” One dark brow lifted as he opened the truck door for me.

  “After lunch,” I said, jolting when he slapped my butt as I crawled in. “I don’t want to have to hurry—I want to take my time with you.”

  “Consider my calendar cleared. Take all the time you want.”

  I shook my head at him as I buckled, glancing around once more. “This place hasn’t changed.”

  Grant leaned into the truck door, letting his gaze wander with me. “No, it hasn’t.” His head shook. “It’s still one of my favorite places on the planet.”

  My forehead lined. “The Clink?” I paused, my confusion settling deeper. “Okay, I’m waiting for the punch line.”

  “No punch line. It’s true.”

  “We barely made it out alive. We never had enough to eat. Why am I recapping this for you?”

  “Yeah, that’s true,” he allowed with a nod. Then his gaze shifted back to me. The look in his eyes pulled the air right from my lungs. “This is also the place that brought me to you.”

  Leaning down, I wrapped my hands around his face. “You know, this place is pretty fantastic. “

  He chuckled softly. “Glad you think so.”

  My head tilted, my lips hovering above his. “Now shut up and kiss me.”

  His hand came around my neck, my name falling from his lips like it was a prayer. “Shutting up.”

  Grant and I had shared many moments like this, but certain ones hit me in a profound way. Like this one. Kissing my husband inside the truck I remembered him working on with his dad when the man wasn’t too drunk to see, after having just blown up our personal house of horrors, right before we were about to eat with our daughter and her boyfriend.

  These were the moments a person lived for. The moments a person died remembering.

  That place between life and death, that was where we were really alive. That was what I’d come to realize. That space between was where all the good stuff happened.

  Breaking the kiss, Grant kept his eyes on mine. “I love you so damn much, Ryan. I’d die for you. A million ways, a million times, I’d die for you.”

  “I know.” My fingers curled into his face as I kissed him once more. “And I’d live for you. A million ways, a million times, I’d live for you.”

  Phoenix is set on hating summer camp. Family summer camp.

  Callum knows his future ends one way: a dead end.

  What they didn’t count on was each other.

  From the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Nicole Williams, comes a pitch-perfect romance about late nights, first loves, and learning to trust again.

  Chapter Three

  I’d been all set to hate camp. That was my plan.

  It became harder to keep to it once I started to explore the place. The camp might have been covered by trees, and the cabins might have been leaning hard toward the rustic side, and it might have felt like it was an entire world apart from California, but it wasn’t so bad.

  Not as bad as I’d imagined when the words family camp and summer break slipped from my parents’ mouths in the same sentence.

  I’d only been wandering for a few minutes—I didn’t want my dad to go totally ape-poop waiting for his precious Wi-Fi password—but it was enough for me to realize that Camp SomethingOrOther could have been a lot worse.

  Not that that was an endorsement for spending an extra hour past what we had planned, but at least my outlook on the place had improved from worst summer ever to just worst summer this decade.

  After weaving around the outskirts of the camp, I meandered down one of the walking paths that looked like it headed toward the center of camp. The place seemed to be arranged like a bike wheel—one large circle of cabins tucked into the trees, with numerous trails connecting the cabins to the hub of the camp.

  Once I’d moved past the circle of cabins, the grounds thinned out and a blanket of grass covered the center of camp. It was the kind of grass that made me want to kick my sandals off and walk barefoot through it, wiggling my toes and letting the blades tickle my toes. I missed grass. California and its drought situation made grass ancient history.

  I would have been happy just to lie down in the grass and take a nap since I’d slept a total of three hours last night. As I trudged across the lawn, I noticed a large group of campers clustered outside the big building ahead.

  One problem, though—the main, if not only, entrance to the dining hall was right behind the campers sprawled on the lawn and listening to what looked to be some kind of lesson on paddling.

  I skirted as far around the cluster of campers as I could, hoping I could sneak into the dining hall without anyone noticing. As I got closer, I could hear someone talking to the campers. It must have been one of the counselors, but he was kind of hidden from view. All I could see was one foot sporting a muddy hiking boot, and every few seconds his forearm when a bright yellow paddle would circle into view.

  I slowed my pace and adjusted my path so I was closer to the group on the lawn and tuned in to what was being said. It only took a few seconds to figure out nothing more thrilling than paddling was being discussed. He was talking about what to do if you fell from the raft into the river—“just go with the flow,” whatever that meant.

  I kept moving toward the dining hall. I didn’t make it far.

  Since I was still trying to check out Instructor Paddle Stroke, I missed the step leading to the porch. Well, my eyes missed it, but the toe of my sandal did not.

  I went down hard. And loud. Just great, Her Gracefulness has arrived.

  I didn’t need to check across the lawn to wonder if anyone had noticed my wipeout. The sudden quiet was all the confirmation I needed—nothing like easing myself into camp life and flying under the radar.

  My knees and hands were stinging like someone had just scrubbed them raw with sandpaper, but I ignored them. Just as I was about to hoist myself up, an arm extended my way.

  “You okay?”

  I dusted off my knees and palms. “Yeah, I’m okay,” I replied before glancing up, which was a good thing since once I looked at him, my tongue tied into those knot thingies I’d heard about.

  Hello . . .

  Instructor Paddle Stroke was towering in front of me, holding out his hand like he was waiting for me to take it. Under normal circumstances, I would have let him give me a lift up, but this wasn’t a normal circumstance because this guy wasn’t, well . . . normal. In a good way.

  That sounded bad, but I didn’t know how else to describe him. I couldn’t look away, but it wasn’t because he fit the hot-guy mold with, you know, the hair and the smile and the jaw thing. He was the other type. The one with enough quirks to make him interesting to look at— the kind with just enough imperfections to make him attractive.

  His hair was messy in the unstyled way, and while he had clear skin, his face was marked with two largish scars—a smooth one traced across part of his upper lip and a rougher one running down his temple. From the small bump at the top of his nose, it looked like he’d broken it—at least once.

  So he’d broken some bones and earned some scars—good for him. I had my own—they just weren’t so obvious.

  I couldn’t tell if his eyes were more brown or green, kind of like his hair couldn’t decide if it was more blond or brown. Even his body seemed to be in some kind of tug-of-war between bulky and lanky.

  “
Are you sure you’re okay?” The skin between his brows creased when I stayed frozen, still staring at him like the idiot I was.

  Get a grip, Phoenix. This isn’t exactly the first guy you’ve ever pasted your eyes on.

  I had to force myself to look away before I could reply. “I’m sure I’m not not okay.”

  “Well, that’s a start.” I could hear the smile in his voice, which made me want to look. Yeah, his smile was just as great as it sounded. Kinda crooked, his eyes grinning, too. “You can work on the rest later.”

  That made me smile back. Again, like the idiot I was.

  I didn’t do boy-crazy, I reminded myself. I didn’t do weak-kneed and tongue-tied and starry-eyed. I did Miss Independent. I did my own thing. I did guys-were-a-nice-perk-but-not- the-pinnacle. That was my MO.

  So why in the hell was I acting like my own personal guy-stupid nightmare, grinning like a moron at this guy? Especially when I was fresh out of a failed relationship?

  “Are you busy?” he asked suddenly, glancing at the group on the lawn.

  Yeah, I’m busy. Checking you out . . . and berating myself for doing it.

  “No,” I said, forgetting all about what I’d been “busy” doing before my tumble heard around the camp.

  “Would you mind helping me with something?”

  “No,” I said, realizing one word too late I had no idea what I’d just agreed to.

  “I’m going to need your help over there.” He tipped his head toward the lawn and campers. When he lowered his hand again, waiting, I shoved off the porch and lifted myself up. I could barely look at the guy—game over if I actually touched him.

  He started heading for the lawn, checking over his shoulder to make sure I was following.

  “What exactly do you need my help with?” I asked, trying not to check out the way his hips moved when he walked . . . or the way his butt looked in action.

  I needed an intervention. A reality-check bitch-slap. I needed to stop noticing all that was so right about this guy, and latch on to whatever I could dig up that was wrong. I started repeating the phrase If it looks too good to be true, it probably is through my head.

  “I’m going to use you to show everyone how to fit a life jacket.” He held a giant orange life jacket in the air, waving me forward with his other hand.

  Too good to be true. Too good to be true, I hummed to myself as I walked up to him.

  The cluster of campers gave a courtesy round of applause for the victim-slash-volunteer. He joined in and clapped with them.

  I gave a little curtsy and reminded myself I’d made a vow to keep this summer complication-and boy-free. I had enough to deal with already.

  He didn’t hesitate as he slipped behind me and stuffed my arms through the life jacket’s armholes. “To kill time, let’s play a Camp Kismet favorite, the Getting to Know You game.”

  I swallowed. I would have rather walked on hot coals. With my face.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll keep it painless.” His head poked out from behind me like he’d known I’d be panicking over the idea of exposing my soul to a bunch of strangers.

  “Where are you from?” he asked as he came around in front of me to start snapping the life jacket into place.

  I exhaled. Painless. “California.”

  A few hoots shot through the group.

  “A fellow Californian.” He nodded at me like we shared some kind of bond now. I nodded like I knew exactly what he meant. “What part?”

  “Santa Monica,” I answered.

  He gave a low whistle as he snapped one of the life jacket’s buckles. “Must be nice over there. All that sand and ocean.”

  I couldn’t tell if he was teasing me or being serious. His face told me he was teasing, but his voice sounded serious. “What part are you from?”

  There. Now it was a fair game of Getting to Know You.

  “The part where we don’t have sand and ocean.”

  When he fastened the next strap together, grazing a part of my arm, I cleared my throat.

  He must have thought I was calling him out on his vague answer instead. That worked.

  “Inglewood,” he said. “Home sweet home.”

  “Oh,” I said, kind of surprised. Not that I spent a lot of time there or knew a lot of people from Inglewood, but he didn’t dress or talk like the few I did know.

  “How old are you, Santa Monica?”

  “Seventeen—almost eighteen.” When he finished buckling the last strap, I took a breath. I’d been holding it the whole time. “How about you? Inglewood?”

  “Just turned eighteen. It was a good year to be born.” He tipped his head at me again, like we shared yet some other bond. I tipped my head, still not getting it. God, I was a wreck.

  A quiet round of laughter circled through the campers who I’d forgotten were there for all of three and a half seconds. I shook my head and gave myself the proverbial kick in the butt to pull my head out of the same spot.

  “So we know where you’re from now. Maybe we should know your name, too.” He punched the shoulders of the life jacket down into place. Hard. He wasn’t treating me like I was a delicate flower. Part of me liked that. The other part wasn’t so sure.

  “Phoenix,” I said, not sure who I was supposed to be speaking to: him or the group. Just to be safe, I spoke loud enough so that most of the campers should have been able to hear me.

  “The mythical bird that rises from the ashes.” He flashed his hands at the life jacket and looked at the campers with a raised brow like he was suggesting this was the time for questions if there were any. I never realized putting on a life jacket required an in-depth demonstration. Seemed kind of self-explanatory. “My mom says our names are symbolic of the kind of people we become. Do you think she’s right?”

  “That’s a loaded question,” I replied.

  “Why’s it loaded?”

  From the smirk he flashed me, he knew why. “Because if I answer one way, I’ll be admitting I’m an ashy bird, but if I answer the other way, I’ll be insulting your mom.”

  He tested the tightness of my jacket by giving it a few hard tugs, followed by a series of harsh shakes. “It’s not a loaded question, I swear. Just one of those normal ones.”

  I was having a conversation with a cute guy in front of a couple dozen people while wearing a giant orange life jacket. Yeah, this was a first. And hopefully a last. “Well, I wasn’t a mythical bird the last time I checked, so I guess that answers your question.”

  The corners of his eyes lined. “Are you saying my mom’s wrong? That she’s a liar?”

  My shoulders sagged beneath the life jacket. Great. And now I’d offended him. From wiping out, to ogling, to offending. I don’t think I’d ever bombed a first impression worse than this one.

  “What? No. Of course not. I just meant . . .”

  He held his devastated expression for another second, right before it disappeared behind a smile that took up half his face. And then he laughed. “I’m just messing with you.”

  I wanted to punch him in the arm. I wanted to shake off the life jacket and storm away. Instead, I stayed in place and let him finish laughing. How was that for calm under pressure?

  “Don’t let him get to you, honey!” an older woman shouted, patting her hand in the air like she was patting my back instead. “Over time, you’ll eventually build up an immunity to Callum.”

  “How many summers have you been coming to Camp Kismet, Mary Jo?” Callum asked, squinting his eyes as he looked, since the sun was blasting into his face from that angle.

  “Twelve, honey.”

  “And when did you finally build up your ‘immunity’ to me? Taking into account I’ve only been coming to camp for the past eight years.”

  Mary Jo nudged the man beside her, who I guessed was her husband since they were rocking the same style of tracksuits, hers shocking purple and his fluorescent orange. They shared a look and a laugh. “Toward the end of last summer.”

  Callum lifted a sho
ulder at me. “See? All you have to do is hang around me for eight summers and then you can build up your own immunity to me. Whatever that even means . . .” Callum shot a look at Mary Jo and her husband and grumbled. “I like to think of myself as having an infectious personality instead of one a person needs to build an immunity to.”

  For a second, the campers were all quiet, looking among one another like they couldn’t believe their ears. Then they all started busting up.

  “Yeah, yeah, I hope you’re all paying attention to this life jacket demonstration,” Callum growled at the crowd good-naturedly. “Your lives depend on it.”

  The campers kept laughing. These people loved this guy. There was also a group of girls around my age who looked like they loved him. Or at least the part of him I’d been admiring when he’d been walking in front of me. Fine ass alert, as Emerson would have announced.

  “What’s your biggest fear, Phoenix?” Callum asked, picking a paddle up from the ground and moving it through the air again like he was instructing.

  “Huh?” I asked when he cocked a brow.

  “Your biggest fear?” he repeated slowly. “We’re playing the Getting to Know You game in case you forgot. Or have a short-term-memory issue.”

  “Oh,” I said, thinking. It was a personal question. A little too personal to just announce to a crowd of strangers, so I kept it vague. “Failing. I guess that’s my biggest fear.”

  He kept slicing the paddle through the air. “Failing what?”

  I took some time to think again. I didn’t need it, though. “Anything.” He moved closer, probably about to drop another question, so I beat him to it. “What’s your biggest fear?”

  If he was surprised by me firing his question back at him, he didn’t show it. His paddle stroke stayed smooth and even, not even a wobble. “Failing.”

  I narrowed my eyes in a question of Really? He shrugged in an answer of Really.