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I sigh. At least the poultice seems to be working. My face and back are not hurting anymore, while the rest of me feels like it’s being bitten by fire ants.
I toss the coverup aside and apply the poultice to my arms and legs. Unfortunately, I fantasize about Evan doing it as I go, and my horniness skyrockets again.
You know what? I’m going to do something about this.
Yeah. I wash my hands and head into the bedroom, where I close the blackout curtains, and without much preamble, go to work on my clit.
Boom.
I’ve always been quick to orgasm—when working solo, that is—but this is Guinness World Record fast. Seems like Evan’s touch has really primed the whole system.
As soon as I’m done, I’m overcome with two urges: to shower and to sleep, ideally at the same time. Hey, at least I don’t want a post-sex cigarette (like my ex—yuck) or an éclair (like Jolene). Not that I’m saying I slept with Jolene. She just volunteered the information.
Problem is, I shouldn’t shower as that would remove the poultice.
That settles that.
I fiddle with Octothorpe Glorp to make sure my morning alarm will not go off for the duration of my vacation.
My dear Precious, so long as I get to watch you sleep, I’m perfectly contented not to wake you—especially since your breath reaches the perfect bouquet of fragrance after nine hours and thirty seconds.
All righty then.
I close my eyes and pass out.
Chapter Ten
Evan
I wake up super early and head to my volunteer gig.
When I get to the highway, my phone rings.
It’s a video call from my long-distance drinking buddy, Mason. True to form, there’s a shot of vodka in front of him.
“Are you free?” he asks.
“Where’s the obligatory, ‘Hey, Evan, how’s it going?’”
“Hey, Evan, how’s it going?” Mason says in a gravelly voice that, combined with his appearance, makes him look like a Viking… or an Asgardian from the Marvel movies. “Want to drink with me?”
“It’s morning,” I reply. As far as I know, Mason doesn’t have a drinking problem; otherwise, I wouldn’t have felt comfortable making our unusual drinking pact: when possible, we don’t allow the other to drink alone. “Is everything okay?”
Guys in general—and Mason in particular—do not chomp at the bit to talk about their feelings, but the morning drink speaks for itself.
“Is that a ‘no?’” he asks.
“Time of the day aside, I’m clearly driving.” New theory for his early drinking: his hockey team lost their game last night, the whole team went out to drown their sorrows, and this is a hair of the dog situation.
“So, it is a ‘no.’ Got it,’” Mason says and hangs up.
“Okay, Mason. Talk to you later. It was nice to catch up,” I say to the already-disconnected phone. “It’s not like I had anything to tell you about a fellow New Yorker.”
Whatever. Instead of discussing the events of last night with a friend, I simply replay them in my head and wonder if Brooklyn will ever speak to me again.
Probably not, but if she does, how likely is she to bring up the treasure map stuff? She said she was into it, so it’s possible, which means I’d better decide what to do in that scenario.
By the time I enter the camp, I have a plan, but I put it out of my mind for the moment because I see a group of campers waiting eagerly for me.
