Page 43 of My Star-Crossed Summer

You can do this,I tell myself.Camping is fun. Let yourself have fun.

I watch carefully as Sophie and Noah extend the poles from Sophie’s dome-style tent and snap them into place.Easy-peasy, kids!While they slip the poles through the fabric and stake them into the ground, I try to focus on the sequence of steps and not on the delicious way that Noah’s forearms flex as he snaps those poles together.

Once Sophie hammers the last stake into place, they declare it done and slap a high-five in true camp spirit that earns a cheer from the kiddos. Noah flashes his megawatt smile, and when his gaze rests on mine, it sends an electric current straight through my belly and down to my wobbly, traitorous knees.

Ugh.Get it together,I scold myself. But I can’t help it because Outdoor Survivalist Noah is even hotter than Protective Noah.

The kids scatter to set up their tents, and soon the air is filled with shouts and laughter. Sophie goes around to help troubleshoot while I head back to my campsite and try to hold Noah’s demo in my brain. If the kids can do it, I can do it. This part, mercifully, is not rocket science.

Twenty minutes later, I’m surrounded by bits of fabric and thin metal poles, and clearly I’d have a better shot at completing a complex equation that describes the behavior of black holes than assembling this tent. None of the pieces connect the way they should, and what I’ve managed to piece together looks like an elaborate modern hat someone would wear to the Kentucky Derby.

Meanwhile, the kids closest to me are hammering their tent stakes and tying on rain flaps like they were born in the wilderness. Never have I felt so inadequate. Layla waves to me when she catches me studying their moves, and I give her a big thumbs up and shout, “Nicely done!”

Turning back to my tent, I yank a corner of the fabric into position and it pops free and smacks me in the face.

Noah and Sophie had his tent together in under ten minutes. Why is this so difficult to wrap my head around? I can stage houses so even the most outdated ones look inviting. I can negotiate prices with investors, juggle contractors, and make the most demanding clients happy. I did the demolition in the house I shared with Theo myself, knocking down walls with nothing but a sledgehammer and low-level rage, for Pete’s sake. But now this crummy one-person tent is going to be my undoing.

I ball my hoodie up and shove it over my face, letting out a muffled scream.

“Hey there,” Noah says, because of course he’s suddenly right by my side when I’m about to fall apart at the seams. “Need a hand?” As he surveys the debris field that is my campsite, he has the audacity to look amused.

My shoulders slump. I was finally starting to feel like I fit in here and was getting the hang of this whole wild, wonderful outdoorsy thing, but this tent is throwing my high hopes in my face. It’s telling me that I don’t belong here on the mountain—not hiking, canoeing, or sleeping in a tent.

But this is where I am, and the only way out is through.

“I really wanted to get this one thing on my own,” I tell him. “You made it look easy.”

“It’s not always,” he says. “For starters, though, I’d suggest setting up a little farther away from that poison oak.”

I stare at the plant where he’s pointing and sigh.

“It’s okay to ask for help, you know.” He shoves his hands into the pockets of his hiking pants—which naturally fit him like a glove—and lifts a brow. “I promise you won’t burst into flames if you do.”

“If you’re wrong about that, I’ll start a wildfire.” I know he’s teasing, but he’s right. “In the Griffin house, asking for help meant you were weak,” I explain. My parents were experts at making demands—but for them, asking meant being needy. I didn’t want to be weak, but didn’t want to be a demanding jerk either. It was easier to just do everything myself—because that way, the only person who could fail me wasme.

He steps closer, so we’re toe-to-toe, and brushes a lock of hair from my cheek. “Victoria, in a million years, I’d never describe you as weak. You’re one of the strongest people I know.”

I swallow hard, leaning into his touch.

“You don’t have to be amazing at everything,” he says. “You’re plenty amazing, just as you are.”

My heart flutters against my ribs and I blink back tears. No one’s told me that before. Not ever. And I never realized how much it would mean to hear those words.

A peal of laughter erupts from somewhere behind us, breaking the spell. Flashing me a tiny smile, Noah picks up a couple of poles and snaps them together, then motions for me to grab the biggest piece of fabric.

“To be fair,” he says, “these older models are extra tricky.”

“You don’t have to say that. I know I’m woefully out of my element.”

He smirks. “Isn’t that part of the idea of summer camp?”

“For the kids, sure.”

Those tiny creases reappear at the corners of his eyes. He slips the rod through the loops in the fabric, wiggling it through a stubborn part as he guides the pieces together. And just like that, this lump of nylon and aluminum is starting to take shape. “You want to get the other side?” he says.

I repeat his movements on the other side of the frame, careful not to pinch my fingers as I wrestle the pole into place. He holds it steady, and then hands me the rubber mallet that we use to pound the stakes into the ground.

Next, I let him help me tie on the rain flap, even though I remember how to do this part. It’s not supposed to rain tonight, but this is classic Noah—always prepared for anything.

---