Page 37 of When It's Us
My entire body perks up.
If there’s a single cup of coffee within ten miles, I’ll sniff it out. And after last night’s near miss, I need a whole pot and a caffeine IV to function.
I inch forward and peek over the edge of the bunk. The lower bed is empty, the covers pulled up like he’d made it in a hurry.
I climb down from the bunk, careful not to smack a knee or wake the entire campground in the process. My bag’s still on the captain’s chair, and I dig out fresh underwear, a bra, leggings, and a sweatshirt—something warm, because it’s chilly even inside the van. Being this close to the water, there’s probably a layer of fog hanging over everything.
I change quickly, then shove my feet into my shoes.
After unraveling the bun I slept in, I rake my fingers through my curls and check my reflection in the visor mirror—the one we half-cleaned yesterday. It’s not great, but it’ll do.
Sliding the side door open, I step into the cool morning air, the scent of ocean and coffee hitting me at once.
Hutch turns to look at me over his shoulder from where he stands at the picnic table.
“Morning,” he says, his voice gravelly and low.
What is it about a man’s voice first thing in the morning that is so damn sexy?
“Morning.” Sliding the door closed behind me, I tuck my hands into the sleeves of my sweatshirt.
Hutch turns back to the table, and I take a minute to appreciate the view. And damn is it a nice one. He’s dressed in a light graytank top and a wet suit, the top folded over so the empty sleeves hang at his sides. On his feet are a pair of black slides. His damp hair is pulled up in a knot, and I notice the yellow and blue surfboard leaned against the front of the Vanagon.
“Coffee?” he asks, gesturing to an aluminum percolator and two tin mugs on the table.
Nodding, I move to stand next to him. “Sure, thanks,” I say and watch as he pours the steaming brew into a mug, then passes it to me.
“Cream and sugar are there if you want them.”
I shuffle over to where he’s put out a little coffee station and take in the small, two-burner cook stove on the table. A metal pot with a lid sits on one burner, and on the other, a small frying pan with scrambled eggs sizzling away in it. I add a little cream to my coffee and pick up the spoon he must have used for his, stirring it. I nod.
“Food smells good,” I say and take a sip of my coffee. It’s rich and delicious, and I can’t believe it’s camping coffee. I wrap my hands around the mug, letting my eyes roam over him.
“Thanks. I wasn’t sure what you preferred, so I made eggs and oatmeal.” He stirs the eggs, then glances up at me.
I shrug. “I’ll eat whatever you don’t want.”
“Your pick,” he says, cutting the heat on the eggs and picking up his coffee to take a sip. I notice he doesn’t take it black.
“Big decision,” he says, and I expect my hackles to raise after our conversation yesterday, but when I look back up at him, his expression is teasing.
I lean over and lift the lid on the pot. “I’ll take the oatmeal,” I say, replacing the lid and sitting across from him before taking another sip of my coffee.
He digs around in a Tupperware bin on the bench beside his knee and pulls out a second spoon before passing it over. Then he lifts the pot and plunks it in front of me. “Careful. It might be hot.”
“Did you surf this morning?” I ask, taking the lid off.
It doesn’t even register that I’m eating straight from the pot until I’ve already dug into the creamy oats and taken my first bite. It’s surprisingly delicious and warms me right up. They’re brown sugar and cinnamon, and the moan I let out at the first bit is almost sexual.
“Not many waves on this beach. Mostly paddled around a bit. Waters cold as fuck.”
I let out a chuckle and look out at the water in the distance. “I bet.”
“You surf?” he asks, taking another sip of his coffee.
I shake my head. “No. Tried to a couple times when I was younger. But I was a lanky kid, horrible balance,” I tell him. “I was a bit topheavy.”
His eyes flick to my chest before moving back to meet mine, the action heating my cheeks. “I can see that.”
