Page 30 of Past Tents

“Why do you hate it? Did you watch the black bear movie?”

“No. It’s the dirt and bugs...I don’t know. I’ve just always avoided camping.” I balled my hands into fists and stuffed them under my chin. Before I even realized I’d taken such a protective stance, Clay was leaning over and gently lowering my fists into my lap. “What black bear movie?” Did I even want to know?

The feel of his hands on my skin both calmed me and sent a warning flare blazing through my chest—I shouldn’t have liked the feeling as much as I did. At this point, I needed to give in and accept that I’d keep feeling these little twinges and pangs for the duration of our camping exercise, but I needed to ignore them. Just like I always did at work.

Scooting his chair closer, Clay uncurled my balled-up fists. “Holy hell, your hands are freezing.”

“I know, that’s why I was warming them over the fire.”

“But they’re not getting any warmer.” He turned my hands over, looking at the way my fingers had gone white at the tips. “You have Raynaud’s.”

“Yeah.” Raynaud’s was a fancy name for poor circulation. The first time my hands had gone numb and white like this had been on a sixty-five-degree day after I’d come out of a hot yoga class and run an errand for my mom before going home and showering. The effect of my rapid cooldown and my not-great circulation was hands that felt ice cold to the touch and needed to be submerged in warm water at my mom’s house in order to get the blood flowing again.

“Does it happen often?”

I shrugged. “Mostly it happens if my hands get wet and then I get cold.”

Or if I get nervous around a hot guy and all my blood rushes to the muscles in my chest.

“I’m sorry. I should have offered you gloves.”

“Not your job. I’m learning to be a self-sufficient camper, remember? Note to self: always bring gloves.”

But I didn’t want gloves, not when his hands were rubbing mine to warm them. Massaging the ends of my fingers, his calloused hands were creating friction along the smoothness of mine. His palms dwarfed mine, and the gentle touch of his large hands infused my skin with warmth. The friction sent heat to parts of me I hadn’t known were cold.

I couldn’t help thinking about how those rough hands would feel gliding down other parts of my body. It was dangerous territory.

My body was begging me to give in and believe these hints of feeling could lead to more. My heart wanted the romance I’d only read about in well-crafted novels. Every surge of electricity across my skin, each flutter in my heart, all the heightened senses felt like something real.

And yet, my brain maintained a firm hold on reality. This man was not my reality.

He couldn’t be. Not when he only did temporary relationships, if you could even call them relationships. If I was going to dip a toe back into believing in love, thereby giving up on my self-sufficiency principles—my principles!—it wasn’t going to be for a man who all but guaranteed heartbreak. No. Not him.

I pulled my hands back, rubbing them together myself because I didn’t need a man to do that for me. Even if it felt amazing.

“Tell me about the bear movie.”

He chuckled and leaned back in his camp chair, which sat so close to mine that our knees were touching. Even leaning away, he still overwhelmed my senses—muscled forearms resting on his thighs, sexy stubble on his jaw, that heady scent of masculine woodsman mixed with fresh soap. I inhaled a shaky breath and hoped he didn’t notice.

“It’s a movie they make people watch if they’re first-time campers in the Smoky Mountains and they’ve never used a bear cannister before. It’s maybe a bit over the top in its focus on bears. The reality is people are much more likely to get food stolen right out of a daypack by a squirrel or marmot. But bears are scary to most people, so they play up all the cautionary tales of people getting their tents mauled because they stashed granola bars in them.”

I felt like he was trying to protect me by downplaying the threat. Even if I hadn’t seen “the bear movie,” I’d grown up in Green Valley, which meant I had a healthy appreciation for the damage a black bear could do. “One of these times, a bear will show up.”

He studied me for a moment, and I allowed myself to gaze at him uninhibited. All masculine energy, stubble on a firm jaw, mouth turned up almost enough to look like a smirk. But it was his eyes that drew me in, the hazel tipping into chocolate territory, like they’d been melted by the fire and produced their own heat. I felt it down to my bones.

We kept getting caught like this, eyes locked, words unspoken, emotions coiled tight below the surface.

Right now it was new. Interesting enough that I let myself have this moment without forcing myself to look away. I let myself enjoy the sight of him without worrying about whether it meant anything.

It didn’t. It couldn’t.I’d keep telling myself that because it was the only safe option. I knew what happened when I allowed fantasies to unfurl. I got hurt, every time.

“Not tonight.” The quiet gruffness of his voice startled me.

Was he answering my thoughts?

No, he was still talking about bears. I tried not to let myself think he meant anything else.

“Alexandra.” When he said my name, I realized I hadn’t heard half of what he’d just said.

---