Page 34 of Freeing Camila

With a small, almost imperceptible shrug of one shoulder, she dismissed his concerns. “It is what it is. I got away from all of that. Now, I’m determined to make up for all the experiences and opportunities I missed”

“Hence the bucket list.”

“Yup.”

“And the s’mores,” he said, his eyes twinkling with amusement as he looked at her.

She giggled. “And the s’mores.”

His hand remained on her as they left the main road behind. They bumped along a rutted dirt road, the tires throwing up dust as they went. Entering a sun-dappled clearing, he parked his truck, the silence of the woods immediately replacing the hum of the engine. As he unloaded what looked like camping gear from the truck bed, she watched, unsure how to assist. Her gaze followed his every move, captivated by the way his muscles flexed and rippled as he worked, now that his leather jacket was off.

The sun slipped behind the ridge, leaving a smear of pink and gold across the sky. Crickets tuned up in the underbrush, and the air was starting to cool, brushing soft fingers down her bare arms. Wade crouched by the fire pit, stacking kindling with practiced ease, his sleeves pushed up and hands steady.

“Are we allowed to do this here?” she whispered, glancing around nervously at the towering trees.

“My boss owns this land. He wants to build a cabin here, eventually. Just never got a chance to yet. He lets us come here whenever we need to decompress.”

With a tilt of her head, she observed him, her brow slightly furrowed in thought. “Do you need to do that a lot? Decompress, I mean.”

“On occasion,” he answered while strategically placing a few logs. “More the last couple of years,” he admitted.

“Why’s that?” she wondered with genuine curiosity.

He was so engrossed in his work that he pointedly avoided looking at her, the silence between them thick with unspoken tension. His avoidance felt deliberate, a calculated act of self-preservation. “I lost a teammate on a mission about three years ago.”

She couldn’t control the gasp that escaped, having not expected that answer. “I’m so sorry.”

He shrugged, his expression conveying a sense of weary acceptance. “I didn’t handle the aftermath well,” he admitted further. “I blamed the wrong people for what happened. I was a complete fuck up.” With a sharp crack, he broke a small twig between his fingers, the gesture betraying his anger and regret over his actions. Beneath the anger, she saw something else. Something like pain. He was still grieving the loss of his friend. Maybe he’d buried his grief so deep he hadn’t even allowed himself to acknowledge it, let alone begin the grieving process. “It’s a miracle I even still have my job.”

“Your boss must see something in you that you don’t.”

His gaze lifted abruptly to hers, a look of surprise clear in his eyes as he registered her unexpected theory. “Maybe.”

Feeling as if she had reached the limit of what she could learn from him, she chose to say nothing more. She watched him from her spot on a log, knees pulled up to her chest. He wore yet another T-shirt, much like the others she knew he owned, this time in a royal blue hue. His wardrobe consisted almost exclusively of T-shirts from one particular company; it was as if he were a walking advertisement. And what an advertisement it was. If she saw an ad with someone as breathtakingly handsome as him—that smile, that hair, those eyes—she’d buy whatever they were selling without a second thought. Paired with the jeans that hugged . . . everything. Yeah, he was a walking billboard for testosterone, muscles bulging beneath his tight shirt, radiating an aura of barely contained self-confidence.

And yet there was that moment of vulnerability that spoke to her. She was starting to believe he hid his insecurity behind that self-confidence.

“You really know your way around fire,” she teased, placing a marshmallow on a stick in preparation for the yummy goodness.

With a quiet laugh, he struck the match. “I’ve done this a time or two.” A tiny flame bloomed, flickering to life as it caught the kindling. Slowly, warmth spread out in a growing circle, and as the fire came alive, it cast a golden glow across his face and the surrounding trees. Shadows danced, long and dreamy.

She handed him a stick and a marshmallow, smiling as their fingers brushed. “Think you can handle this part?”

“Oh, I’m a s’more professional.”

She laughed, the sound light and easy, carried away by the wind. The fire crackled low and steady, its orange glow casting flickering shadows around the clearing. She kneeled beside him. She stuck her marshmallow tipped stick into the flame and watched as it caught fire. With a squeak, she pulled out the stick complete with a slightly charred marshmallow skewered at the end.

“Okay, so that was a fail,” she said, blowing on the blackened puff of sugar. “I think I just invented marshmallow charcoal.”

He chuckled, reaching for another marshmallow and placing it on another stick. “You’re rushing it. S’mores are an art form, not a race.” He passed her the fresh one. “Here. Let me show you how it’s done.”

She watched him, her eyes following the way his fingers moved—steady, confident, familiar. He adjusted the marshmallow on the end and then positioned it just above the flames, not in them.

“You want to find the sweet spot,” he said, nodding toward the glowing embers. “Not too close, or it’ll catch fire. Too far, and it’ll just sit there getting sad.”

“So, we’re avoiding sadness. Got it.”

“Exactly. Rotate it slowly.” He demonstrated, turning the stick between his fingers with rhythmic ease. “Let the heat work its magic. It should be golden, a little crispy on the outside, gooey on the inside.” His gruff voice, each word a low rumble in his chest, had an electrifying effect on her. She watched his lips as he spoke, wondering what else that mouth could do. The thought sent a wave of intense energy surging through her, causing her very core to pulse and throb.

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