Page 106 of The Wife Situation

“Will we even fit?”

I shrug. “I guess we’ll find out later.”

He doesn’t look convinced or amused as I pull the mattress pad and sleeping bag from the back seat.

I position them inside the tent and take a step back. It is what it is, and we’ll make it work.

Easton makes several trips as I gather loose leaves and smaller sticks for kindling. I grab the fire starter and let out a sigh of relief when I see the striker still attached. Otherwise, this entire setup would have been useless. To be honest, that would’ve been the icing on the cake.

I shave off magnesium onto the kindling pile. After I flip it around onto the ferro rod side, I strike against it, and sparks fly. The magnesium instantly catches on fire and I add other smaller sticks, blowing on it to keep the flame hot.

Eventually, it catches, and I stand up, adding thicker sticks until I have a roaring fire. When it pops and cracks, I smile, proud of myself. It’s been years since I started a fire using one of those, but I still have it.

Sometimes, it pays to grow up in the middle of nowhere. Situations likethisaren’t frightening.

Easton returns, drops the rest of what he gathered on the vast pile, then steps back. The fire crackles and he tilts his head, impressed.

I nod as he gives me a high five.

“Mmhmm.” I brush off my shoulder.

“Southern girls.” He proudly folds his arms across his broad chest. “You’re made different.”

“A good kind of different?”

“Verygood.”

“I’ll take it as a compliment,” I say.

“You should.”

Easton returns with the camping chair and the bottle of Fireball.

I look down at it in his hand. “That a good idea?”

“Are you scared?” He chuckles, removing the lid.

“No, but you should be. At some point when I drink, my filter disappears.”

“Wait.” He tilts his head. “You have a filter?”

I narrow my eyes. “I’m glad you can dishandtake it.”

“I love to reciprocate,” he says, moving the chair close to the fire.

Easton sits and pats his lap. I take his offer, and he wraps his arm around my waist, hooking his finger into the front belt loop of my jeans.

He brings the bottle to his lips before handing it to me. “Eww, that tastes like shit.”

As I take a long pull, he watches me with a brow lifted, a small smile permanently planted.

“It reminds me of bad decisions,” I say.

“Like what?”

“Oh, there are way too many to even name. I went to a few cast parties and kissed people I probably shouldn’t have. It’s why I never kissed any of the guys I went on dates with when I moved back. For some reason, when I do, guys get weirdly obsessed.”

“Really? Maybe that’s the problem. You cursed me when you stuck your tongue down my throat in front of the paps,” he says.

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