Page 33 of Freeing Camila

“Warm layers work best. It will get chilly.”

“I don?”

He turned her toward her bedroom and gave her a little push. “Get moving. We’ll need to get set up before the sun sets completely.”

“I still don’t?”

“I can’t stand the thought of your first taste of a s’more being from a microwave. Therefore, I’ll take you where we can make a proper campfire.”

She perked up hearing that, a wave of excitement washing over her. “Really?”

“Yes. But only if you hurry up and get changed.”

Too excited to delay, she completed his command with astonishing speed. With a brief stop at his house, he loaded the back of his truck with things she could only guess at, since he wouldn’t let her help. Then he drove them out of town, the engine’s gentle hum the only sound as a blur of houses and trees rushed past. They followed the road as it curled gently ahead, winding its way toward the rising silhouette of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

The hills emerged in soft layers, blue and smoky in the late afternoon light, like they’d been painted into the sky. Each curve of the road brought them closer, the mountains growing more vivid—verdant with pine and oak, their shadows deepening as the sun lowered behind them.

With the windows cracked, the air turned cooler, scented with damp earth and honeysuckle. The radio hummed a slow love song, but it was the view that made her heart swell.

It was beautiful—wild and untamed, just like the way he made her feel.

She glanced over at him as he drove, a smile playing on her lips at the sight of his focused expression. She never expected him. Not in this life, not with her past. Love was something she’d only ever read about, only seen from the outside—foreign, fragile, and always fleeting. Her childhood, a chaotic battlefield of harsh words and the sting of neglect taught her that vulnerability only amplified the pain of inevitable betrayals. This forged a deep-seated belief that emotional dependence only paved the way for more profound hurt.

The most brutal betrayal she suffered, inflicted by the very person who should have loved and protected her above all others, only compounded her suffering. And caused her unshakeable belief that love was a fairytale, a sweet, yet sadly unrealistic fantasy.

So she built walls instead of bridges, taught herself how to survive alone, and convinced herself that broken things didn’t get a second chance. But then he came along—quiet, steady, and maddeningly kind.

He didn’t push, didn’t pry. He simplyshowed up.With that protective way of watching her, like he could see the ghosts at her back and had no intention of letting them get any closer. His presence was unexpected, a slow-burning warmth that reached into places she’d buried long ago.

“So what prompted you to want a s’more today?” he asked interrupting her internal musings.

“I wanted to try one.”

His eyes darted to her, lingering for a moment before refocusing on the road ahead. “You’ve never had a s’more?”

“Nope.”

He slowly shook his head, the movement barely perceptible, a deep frown etched on his face. “That’s just sad.”

“I know,” she said with a sigh. If he only knew how sad her life had been before moving to Bell Creek.

“How does one go through childhood and not have a s’more?” he wondered.

“Because my father was always working. Family life was practically non-existent and was devoid of the usual activities, like camping trips or weekend barbecues.” That was putting it mildly. Things like family and love were foreign concepts in her home. She even balked at calling the place she lived for almost twenty years a home. It was more like a prison and she was no more than an indentured servant.

“Was it just you and your dad?”

“Yeah. My mom left when I was eight.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too. I don’t remember that much about her. But I remember wishing things had been different.”

“What do you mean?”

Embarrassed and pained by the vivid memories of her wretched childhood, she grimaced and nervously twisted her hands together in her lap. She couldn’t explain her embarrassment. It was not her shame to carry. She’d been an innocent child. The shame should have been her father’s responsibility to bear, not hers. “My father was a hard man. I don’t think he ever loved anybody. Not my mom. And certainly not me.” A truth that was tough to admit.

He stretched his arm across the console and gently laid his considerably larger hand over hers, his fingers completely covering her own as he squeezed them in a comforting gesture. “That’s rough.”

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