Page 93 of Every Thought Taken

He pats the cargo pocket on the side of his shorts. “Good thing I have my trusty compass.”

Instantly, my eyes are on him. Watching every twitch of his facial muscles. His own reaction to what he said.

Compass. As inmycompass? The compassIgave him when we were kids? After all this time, he still has the personally engraved gold compass?

“When you’re lost,” I mumble, voice catching on the wind.

He reaches across and brushes his knuckles from my shoulder to my elbow. Fire sparks beneath his touch and my breaths come in jagged bursts. My heart beating a new, wobbly rhythm.

Years. It has been years since I felt this unhinged, this exhilarated, this entranced by someone.

Most guys at college were either immature or nose deep in their studies. There weren’t many guys in the middle, but they did exist. I’d said yes to my share of them when they asked me to dinner or a movie. Not a single one lasted after date two or three and the inevitable kiss good night. Prior to college, Anderson hadn’t been the only guy I kissed. But kissing another man after him… felt wrong.

Since college, any guy that came knocking, I politely declined anything beyond friendship. Years of artificial smiles and going against my instincts came to a screeching halt. It didn’t stop Lessa from giving me a nudge from time to time. When she did, I rejected each night out with an irrefutable excuse.

Years have passed with no genuine romantic connection. My last undeniable bond had been with Anderson.

“Find true North,” he finishes.

Time away has been on my to-do list for far longer than I care to admit. As is making things right with Anderson. This trip checks one off the list. If I play my cards right, if I don’t get swept up in the sights and sounds andhim, I may be able to check off the other too.

Anderson isn’t just some task to be accomplished. He will always be so much more. And by the end of the week, he will sit comfortably in the friend category… or something I refuse to think.

Not only is Smoky a fan of car rides, she also seems quite at home with her new harness and leash. As if she was always meant to be a camping or hiking companion.

Who knew? Certainly not me.

Smoky sits near a large rock and watches on as Anderson builds a fire and I riffle through the cabinets in search of what to make for dinner. With the side and back doors ajar, a light breeze passes through the van. A retractable canopy extends over the sliding door, the awning creating a covered porch between the van and firepit. Two collapsible camping chairs are parked on the makeshift lanai facing the pit.

I opt for chicken with potatoes and carrots, wanting to cook the perishables first. Rummaging through the cabinets, I locate a knife and silicone mat then get to work cutting the vegetables. It’s been far too long since my last outdoor excursion, but all the skills Dad taught me about campfire cooking come back the moment I slice into the first carrot.

“Cooking over a campfire is different from the stove, Bug. The temperature isn’t as easily controlled. You have to be ready for anything. Cut the food small enough to cook quickly, but not too small.”

Distracted with my task, I startle when Anderson steps up behind me and peeks over my shoulder. The knife stills in my hand, his body inches from mine as he wordlessly hovers. Then his hands are on my hips and I forget how to breathe. How to blink. How to do anything other than stand there and wait.

“We can cook in here or over the fire.” His grip on my curves tightens. “Whichever you want.”

If I had any idea of what I wanted right now, I sure as hell wouldn’t be standing here mute and frozen. Anderson means cooking, but my brain automatically goes into this spiral, searching for hidden messages in his words. Because his hands are still on my hips. His breath continues to dance over the skin just beneath my ear. And his proximity lights every molecule in me on fire.

My eyes fall shut as I attempt to contain the inferno beneath my sternum. As I try not to think of how close his lips are to my skin. How I want his lipsonmy skin. On my lips. How I want his taste on my tongue.

For crying out loud.

One.Don’t jump to conclusions. His hands on you don’t equal more than friends.

Two.Quit overthinking every single word or action. He may still love me, but until he indicates otherwise, our love isn’t like before.

Three.Calm the hell down. He comes in talking about food, and all you think about is shoving your tongue down his throat.

Get. A. Grip.

Opening my eyes, I inhale deeply and nod. “Over the fire would be nice.” I twist to meet his gaze, the tip of my nose brushing his. Swallowing, I continue. “Been a long time.”

For more things than I care to admit.

The corner of his mouth twitches before he runs the tip of his nose along the side of mine. Mere inches separate our mouths as his breath ghosts my lips. My synapses rapid firing as we stand frozen.

Will he kiss me?

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