Total pages in book: 22
Estimated words: 20192 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 101(@200wpm)___ 81(@250wpm)___ 67(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 20192 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 101(@200wpm)___ 81(@250wpm)___ 67(@300wpm)
She goes to school over two hours away. She performs. Needs laughter and people and the spotlight. Meanwhile, I’m isolated here right at the edge of the Camp Firefly grounds when camp isn’t in session, living a quiet life surrounded by nature. When there’s no funny songs and talent shows and camp magic, is she going to want this?
My house comes into view ahead, and I glance over, watching Margot lean forward to peer through the windshield. “Oh my gosh. Your house, Dean! It’s nothing like I pictured it.”
“What were you picturing?”
“It’s more modern than I was expecting.” My headlights illuminate the front porch. “Oh, there’s a rocking chair. And a porch swing.” She shoots me a sidelong glance. “You made them, didn’t you?”
I grunt.
She sighs happily. “Does the chimney mean there’s a fireplace?”
“Yes. Too bad it’s not the right season for a fire.”
“Maybe in the winter. I’ve always wants to very dramatically throw a sheaf of papers into the fire and stare broodily into the flames as they burn.” She turns with a jolt. “I mean, not that I’m planning to be here in the winter . . . already.”
My pulse falters. “No. Right.”
“Um . . .” She rests her hand on the passenger side handle, drumming her fingers while I try to recover from her last statement. “Should we go in?”
“Yeah.” I shake myself, unfastening my seat belt. “Stay there.”
“Why?”
“So I can open the door for you.”
“Oh.” Biting her lip to subdue a smile, she very primly smooths her dress. “Such gentlemanly behavior.”
I’m smiling the whole way around the back bumper. How I ever did anything but smile around Margot is totally beyond me. When I open the door, she places her hand in mine like a regal Victorian lady, gliding from the truck as if there’s a book balanced on her head. “Thank you, kind sir.”
“Milady.”
She breaks character, laughing—and then she’s pulling me up the front steps of my own house. Believe me, I go happily. I take out my keys, then let us inside and turn on the lamp positioned by the coatrack. I smile and lean back against the closed front door, because I already know she’s not going to wait for a tour. She’s off like a shot, bouncing room to room, making exclamations and bumping into things. Thirty seconds. That’s all it takes for the house to feel alive again. It’s been a long time since it did.
It’s a few minutes before Margot blows back into the kitchen, which takes up most of the main floor, except for a guest room and half bathroom. She runs her fingers over the dining room table and looks around the room while I move to the refrigerator and open it. “Do you want a beer?”
Her mouth drops open. “You drink alcohol, Dean?”
I don’t hide my amusement. “Only when I’m not in charge of a hundred kids.”
She hums. “I got really drunk once during freshman year at Cal, and it taught me a valuable lesson. I’m dramatic enough without adding ingredients.”
“I can only imagine. Being that you dance on tables sober.”
“That’s the best part about camp. I can be weird.” She joins me near the refrigerator, watching me twist off the top of a frosty bottle. “Maybe I’ll just have a sip of yours.”
I nod, handing her the bottle. She tips it to her lips, exposing the shifting softness of her throat, inviting my fingertips to touch her there, tracing down, down to her collarbone. A flush rises in the wake of my touch, and when she lowers the beer, I watch it spread to her cheeks. “Christ, Margot. You’re so fucking beautiful.”
She gasps softly. Playfully. “You drink beer and say the f-word?”
I take the beer out of her hands and set it down on the table behind her. Kissing her right now feels inevitable, but once I start, I’m not going to be able to concentrate on anything else, as proved this afternoon when I dry humped her against the dining hall. And she’s staring at my mouth with her parted lips, a little shiny with beer, but there’s something that needs to be done first. Knowing how badly she wanted to see my patches, knowing I refused her something so easy for years, has been tearing me apart all day.
“It’s patches time. Come here.”
I pick her up by the waist and set her on the table, beside my barely touched beer. I make a quick trip upstairs to my room to retrieve the sash that holds twenty-one Eagle Scout badges, and when I make it back to the kitchen, I catch her taking another sip of my beer.
“Just to make sure I hate it,” she explains.
“Uh-huh.” I hesitate at the foot of the stairs. “You know, it’s one thing to show these off to a group of campers. Feels a little ridiculous showing them off to a girl.”