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’s going swimming.
Or she’s upset.
Margot crying out of sadness, not joy, is my least favorite thing in this world, followed by littering and pollution. Yeah, Sad Margot is at the top of my Absolutely Not list, so yes, I let her prank me and get the mischief out of her system. I don’t fire her for nearly causing me to have a heart attack, even though I’m basically her boss now. I allow her to dance on the dining hall tables and flout the lights-out policy.
Because . . . she’s the light of this camp.
My moonbeam.
What am I to her, unfortunately?
The nature nerd who is the eternal punch line of her jokes.
Like I said, I’ll be that for her, because it makes her happy.
I’m just not masochistic enough to ask her out.
She’d probably insist on a picnic, then fake a bigfoot sighting.
“Dean,” says one of my campers, tugging on my sleeve. “What is the challenge this year? I know you said you won’t give us a hint, because then we’d have an advantage, but if we don’t beat the girls, they’re going to be so annoying for three weeks.”
“No hints.”
“Bro.”
“Everyone finds out the challenge at the same time. If you can’t win fairly—”
“You’ve already lost,” he groans, echoing the lecture I gave them at breakfast. “Why do you have to be such a stickler for rules?”
I’m growing distracted as Margot draws closer, easing her piggyback passenger onto the ground before opening her arms for the crier. Is there something different about Margot? Her body is exactly as I remember it—and I remember it frequently. Right now, her blue Camp Firefly T-shirt is tied up beneath her breasts, and she’s wearing frayed jean shorts with very soft-looking back pockets. I would kill to slide my palms inside of them and squeeze what’s underneath. Pull and lift her up against me, watching her eyes fill with awareness that there’s more to me than hiking safety tips.
What the hell is different about her?
“We don’t have to talk to the girls, do we?” says another camper, standing at his friend’s elbow, both ten-year-olds riveted by the arrival of their opponents. “I’m not talking to them.”
“Guess what?” I say. “They’re saying the same thing about you right now.”
They trade a defiant glance. “Good.”
“You have to be nice to the girls so they’ll show you how to make lanyards. It’s the same concept as braiding. Girls have the competitive edge in that department.”
“Why can’t you show us?”
“I’ve done my time in the lanyard studio. I’m a free man now.”
They grumble for a few seconds, then one of them points directly at Margot. “Is it true that she once dressed up like a bear and scared the crap out of you at the campfire?”
“Yup,” Margot says, hop-skipping to a stop in front of our trio, hands clasped behind her back. Is she holding a prop knife or something? I lean sideways to check, and she raises a curious eyebrow at me before continuing to address the boys. “Practiced my bear noises for weeks. Want to hear them?”
Their eyes light up.
She lights everything up.
Even when she’s growling and snarfing, lumbering in a circle like a bear, sending my campers into hysterics. Why does she look different this morning? Last night at the welcome campfire, she was gorgeous enough to make me forget my speech several times, but the gray of her eyes is so . . . vivid right now. What’s going on here?
“Wait, Dean. I have an idea,” chirps one of the boys. “Can Margot teach us to make lanyards? She’s a girl!”
“I am?” she breathes in mock horror. Then, “Of course I can teach you. I taught Dean when we were thirteen.”
“You’ve been coming here that long?”
“Uh-huh.” She elbows me in the ribs. “Making his life hell since 2018 and countin—”
“Are you wearing lipstick?” I interrupt, perplexed.
“Yes,” Margot says on a laughing exhale, her eyes fastened on mine. Her fingertips lift to her lips, but fall away before touching. “Thanks for noticing.”
Little does she know I notice anything and everything related to her mouth.
“Do you think it looks . . . good?” she asks, sort of hesitantly.
“Ew. Let’s get out of here,” mutter my campers, slinking away.
My attention drops to my clipboard, where it’s safe. “Why are you wearing it?” I ask, making an absent note about a lanyard-making crossover event.
“For a confidence boost.”
I don’t hide my skepticism. “The one thing you don’t lack is confidence, Margot.”
She shifts in her hiking boots, which incidentally, have neon-pink laces. “I mean, most of the time you’re right. I am witty and engaging and have a pretty great singing voice. I’ve got an arsenal of campfire stories, too, as you know . . .”
“Again, I question the need for more confidence.”
“I don’t know.” She presses her blush-colored lips together. “Maybe I’m hoping my crush will notice me back this summer.”