Page 32 of How to Date a Younger Man
“Don’t worry. I was a Boy Scout for a short time. I remember how to make a fire. Or, at least, I remembered to bring lighter fluid,” I say, splashing said fluid on the woodpile with fervor.
“Oh my God, Griffin. That’s a lot.”
“Oh, it’s fine.” I strike a match against the matchbox.
“Are you s—”
The flames roar to life with an audible whoosh when I drop the match in the center of the pile. Heat rolls off the wood like the waves of the nearby ocean, instantly enveloping us in warmth. I rub my hands together over my creation, admiring it. That’s a damn good fire.
“You seem proud of yourself,” Layne says, scooting closer to the fire. Closer to me.
“Not all of us are fancy career women. The rest of us little people have to make do with smaller accomplishments.” I gesture at the flames, and in my best caveman voice, I growl, “Man make fire. Man feel good.”
Layne snickers, bumping me with her elbow. I take a chance and wrap my arm around her, pulling her against my shoulder. She folds into me, easily resting her head against my chest. We stare at the flames, lost in the beauty of the moment.
A rush of relief washes over me. I feel calm. At peace.
And then my stomach growls.
“Is someone revving up their Jet Ski in the distance, or was that your stomach?” she asks, looking at me with big, sparkling eyes.
“Oh, now she has jokes,” I say with a chuckle.
I reluctantly extract myself from her to set up the fireplace grill. Now, this I haven’t done before. I bought this on a whim as I was picking up food and drinks for the day. Lucky for me, it’s just a matter of adjusting the length of the legs to match the fire . . . which in my case, is aggressively high.
“Is it still fine?” she asks, quoting me from earlier.
“You bet,” I say, my confidence unwavering.
With a spritz of margarita mix, I bring the fire down to a low, blue-white flame, and set the grill over it. One by one, I lay out rosemary-infused burger patties, long strips of red and green peppers, and two halves of corn on the cob. The smell is incredible.
“Okay, now I’m hungry,” Layne says over my shoulder.
Within twenty minutes, we’re both moaning into piping-hot burgers and talking through mouthfuls of watermelon-and-feta salad. The fact that this woman is gorgeous even when she’s double-fisting a margarita and a corn cob proves there’s something wrong with me. But I love how comfortable and safe she feels around me. She’s not sucking her stomach in or worrying about the spot of ketchup on her cheek. She’s just unapologetically herself.
But she’s also a little different. She doesn’t pull back when I use my thumb to wipe the ketchup off her cheek, nor does she seem to mind my staring. Is it the tequila?
Or is it something else?
As we clean up the carnage of our dinner, I repeatedly remind myself not to get my hopes up again. Every time I feel like I’ve gotten close to Layne, she’s pushed me away. After tonight, she’ll probably shut me out for another six months.
I clench my jaw. How much longer can I keep up with the whiplash?
“I think I’m about ready to turn in,” she says with a yawn.
The beach cover-up she threw on before we settled by the fire slips off one shoulder, and I swallow. I want her. I can’t afford to waste time thinking about the off chance that Layne shuts me out again. She’s let me back in for this moment, and I’ll be damned if I don’t make it count.
“I’ll meet you in there,” I murmur, reaching out to tuck a stray hair behind her ear.
Again, she doesn’t back away. Instead, she just smiles, meets my eyes, and leans into my touch. I don’t have time to process the moment, because as soon as it begins, it ends. The flap of the tent closes behind her with a quiet slide of fabric.
For a second, I watch Layne’s silhouette as she ties her hair up, getting ready for bed. Then I turn back to the fire, dump the remains of a bottle of water on top, and wait for it to fizzle out.
When I step into the tent, Layne is propped up against a stack of pillows, dressed only in an oversized T-shirt from her college’s alma mater. She isn’t inside her sleeping bag. Instead, she’s lying on top of it with a thin sheet over her. Her bare legs tangle in the sheet, exposing more skin than covering it. As her gaze locks with mine, her eyes soften.
I pull off my shirt, my eyes never leaving her. “This okay? I normally sleep in boxers or shorts.”
She nods, still watching me. “Whatever you normally sleep in is fine.” Her voice is lower than usual, almost husky.
