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“Well, if you’re implying sex, I won’t hold anything against you. Those hot dogs turned my ass on, and I couldn’t be happier than to have a little friends-with-benefits relationship with you,” I teased, but I sort of hoped it would happen.
“Good lord,” she said while I bent to take a few beers from the fridge. “Could you please get sex out of your goddamn mind?”
I turned and grinned at her, “If I didn’t eat a fucking wiener for dinner, then I probably wouldn’t have it on my mind.”
“This begs the unanswered question,” she started after I twisted the cap of the bottle of beer and handed it to her. “Why must men—or anyone, really—compare anything sexual to a hot dog?”
“I blame Freud,” I shrugged. “Ultimately, that’s a question that you won’t get a straight answer from me, so you probably shouldn’t ask that.”
“Indeed. Perhaps we can stick to the cold, hard truth about who John Aster is and where he comes from,” she taunted while I pulled my chair closer to hers.
“There’s no solid mystery or creepy campfire story to be told regarding my family or upbringing,” I started. “However, my family is obscenely wealthy, and my parents have very interesting standards for their sons.”
“That’s not so bad,” she answered. “I think every family does, although I’m sure your parents are different from others. I don’t know. You just seem to be hung up on what the gentleman at the store told you.”
“I like calling him Huckleberry Joe,” I said, knowing I would probably never forget the old man.
“You’re too much,” she chuckled, taking a healthy sip of beer and proving that she was unwinding and enjoying herself like I’d hoped she would. “Tell your creepy family story, and I’ll tell you if I’ll be scared or not to sleep alone in my tent tonight.”
“Don’t tempt me because I’ll head down the road of family issues that have been known to send therapists into therapy just to ensure I can sleep in your tent tonight.”
“After watching you make that queen-sized air mattress bed, topped with a memory foam mattress pad, brand new Egyptian cotton sheets, and two delightful goosedown comforters? Inviting anyone into my dreamy little abode will take some Amityville horror house-type Aster family stories.”
I felt more at ease to see Mickie so relaxed and chill, her sweet smile lighting up her face and her eyes glittering with the reflection of the fire flicking in them. Perhaps I would unpack a little Aster family drama and see how it set the stage for a little romance session in Mickie’s tent later.
I eyed her. “I didn’t think this entire trip through,” I said before starting in on my personal life. I swear, I could not stop second-guessing whether this was a smart thing to do. I’d never told anyone about my family life like this, especially a woman and definitely not a colleague.
“Oh, no,” she chuckled. “I assure you, you thought everything through when it came to packing and planning for this trip.”
“No,” I smirked. “If I were fucking smart, I would’ve forgotten the linens for your bed, so you’d be forced to sleep in my arms.”
“Can we actually talk about something more than having a night together that I’m quite confident we’ll both regret in the morning?”
“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “My family is a hard case to crack open, even for me. I don’t even allow myself to stay in my head about it much, or I’d go crazy. It’s hard to expect someone else to comprehend it all.”
“Try me?”
“As you wish,” I said, gulping beer before diving in. “My father comes from an extremely wealthy family who settled in a lovely city near the coast of Normandy in France.”
Her eyes widened, “That’s highly impressive.”
“It is,” I answered, taking pride in this part of my family heritage. “We still own many vineyards there and have recently updated the winery estate, which is famous for its red wines native to the area.”
“Shit, I really am impressed. It also explains how you knew about the wine I offered you at my aunt’s house and how you managed to pronounce it without sounding like an idiot.”
“I’m sort of bred to know that shit, but it’s not something I practice daily. In fact, I just knew of the wine because my mother secretly loves it, something we never dare tell my father,” I chuckled.
“Yet another little secret your mother holds,” she said, relaxing further into her chair. “You seem to know all her little hidden secrets. Is that where this story turns frightening?”
“Very funny, and no,” I eyed her. “I’m not a mama’s boy if that’s what you’re insinuating.”
“I wasn’t thinking that, but now that I see you’re defensive about it, I’m going to assume you are.”
“Not in a way that I think most mama’s boys can be,” I conceded slightly to her remark. “I’m the baby, and I’ve come to learn how to get what I want from the world’s most strict mother.”
“You’ve not met my mother.”
“Oh, I have, remember? When I rudely introduced myself to your family?”
