Page 126 of Roughing It

The crackle of the fire and Blakely’s off-key singing shake me out of my fantasy. I watch, a smirk on my face, as she slides a marshmallow onto a skewer and holds it over the fire.

Knowing what’s coming, I pierce multiple marshmallows onto my stick.

“You’re gonna burn it.”

“There’s no right or wrong way to toast a marshmallow,” she huffs.

“Considering yours is melting into the fire, I’m gonna have to disagree.”

She pulls her skewer from the flames, frowning at the charred ruins. The glassy sheen of tears has me on high alert.

“I can’t even toast a marshmallow. How am I so bad at everything?”

My stomach rolls, guilt churning, since I thought the same thing. Shit, I’m an asshole. And I can’t handle it when my girl cries. “You built the fire tonight.”

“I can do one whole thing off your mile-long survival skill list. Hurray, me.”

“Building the fire means you also figured out how to create potable water.”

A small smile pulls at her mouth. “That’s true. I did.”

Giving her a soft kiss, I say, “And you proved mastery of first aid a while ago.”

Her laugh relaxes the pangs in my stomach. She scoots her camp chair closer to mine while burning more marshmallowsbeyond edible. She’s happy, so I don’t mention the other skills—like navigation.

Motherfucking navigation. I lost her for over two hours today when I sent her on a fifteen-minute circular path alone.

And after the elderberry incident, I didn’t ask her to forage.

Overall, if I rate my city girl on her skills, she’s getting a D-minus. And yeah, I’m curving up for sleeping with the teacher.

Blakely eyes my toasted marshmallows, pouting. Heaven fucking help me, it’s so damn cute. Her plump bottom lip juts out, begging me to nip it. So, like a chump, I trade my skewer for her lump of charcoal.

“I’ll share, Bear.” She takes a bite and offers me a nibble from between her lips.

I take her up on it, my teeth grazing her lips as I pull away. When she extends a sticky hand, I lick the sugary remains from the pad of her thumb, biting hard enough to make her shudder.

She snags my lips in a deep kiss, dropping the skewer to the ground. Who the fuck needs marshmallows, anyway?

The idiot inside me wants to tell her she could eventually be an outdoor expert, and we could have two thousand nights of campfires and marshmallows. All she has to do is stay. Instead, I guide her into my lap and tilt her head. My hands brush over her face as I gaze at her. Slowly, I lower my mouth to hers, lips barely touching, a glancing caress. Then another. Tender, chaste, but longer than the first. I hold my mouth a hair’s breadth above hers, breathing in her air, not ready to let go of this moment, of her. “Spitfire, I…”

The crash of thunder jolts us. One drop of rain. Then a second and third.

Frowning, I glance up. Heavy, rain-laden clouds hide the stars that were peaking through the branches.

November weather is usually calmer than this. Typicallystorms peter out around August, but our fucking luck. Tugging Blakely to her feet, I say, “Get in the tent.”

The wind picks up, whipping around us. Before she moves, the sky bursts open, rain pelting down like tiny bullets. Shit.

“Blakely! The tent!” My bark is louder than the scream of the storm.

With wide eyes, Blakely shakes her head. “I can help!”

My protective side demands she go inside, but she’s a stubborn shit. So I point to the chairs. “Collapse those and rake the coals.” She nods and gets to work despite the water dousing her.

While she does that, I check the latches. I’m not upset about redoing those knots now. I’d never forgive myself if something happened to our shelter during a storm. Once I’m sure we’re tethered, I crawl in and join her.

“What a way to end the evening!” Blakely laughs as she unzips her jacket and yanks off her rain-soaked boots.

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