Page 323 of Boots, Bucket Lists & Bad Ideas
He grabs my hand and we run to the end of the dock. The planks creak beneath us with a subtle sway.
I hold up the inflatable swan wearing glasses. “Look what we got, losers!”
Hart cracks up laughing.
I grin at him. “Too much?”
He shakes his head and cups his mouth toward the water. “Better luck next time! Should’ve swum faster.”
“How the fuck did you get that?” Bronx barks.
“Seriously, how did they get that before us?” Celi asks.
“Uh, maybe because you guys were too busy splashing around like fish?” Jade shouts back at them.
“It’s because the asshole was floating in our damn way,” Josie snaps. “Damn, ogre.”
“See y’all back at camp.” Hart takes my hand and we run.
It’s a rush—the laughter pouring out of us, the excitement, doing it all with him.
We win the game, and finally, the day ends, and we can retire to bed.
This time, I’m not leaving Hart.
“We should celebrate the win.” Hart pulls me against his waist, calming me, telling me I couldn’t leave if I wanted to.
Which I don’t.
The night closes in tightly as we slip inside his tent. The space carries the scent of pine and clean soap from the showers. The nylon walls glow faintly from the lantern outside, just enough to see him.
Behind me, the zipper hums shut, his touch closing us off from the night.
Silence swallows the space, except for the soft thrum of crickets and the squeak of the air mattress when I sit.
He drops beside me, knees brushing mine, both of us fully dressed.
For a second, neither of us moves. His hand flexes on his thigh, and I can hear his breathing steady and low.
The silence stretches, then he breaks it with a quiet "Hi.” His smirk does nothing to hide the playful edge in his deep, husky voice.
“Hi.”
“You think this can handle us?” He gives the blow-up mattress a light push.
I smile. “I don’t think it’s built for our kind of rough play.”
His mouth curves, eyes flicking to my lips. “Then I guess we’ll have to play nice.” His fingertips touch my knee. “Keep it gentle.” His hand slides onto my leg, heating my skin straight through the denim.
How are we going to keep it gentle when I want to shove him back and ride him rough and hard?
My fingers trace up to his arm, over the warm stretch of muscle beneath his sleeve.
His fingers brush the brim of my Stetson. “You gonna keep that on all night?”
“Depends,” I say, smiling.
He tips it off slowly, setting it on the bag beside us. Then he pulls his off too, dropping it next to mine. The sight of them, side by side, is like fate leaving clues in fabric. So matchmaker of them.
