“Sunny tried out a new facial on me, I tried on some of her clothes, and they did my hair and makeup. The usual. What do you think?” I wave my hands over myself like Vanna White. Am I fishing for compliments? Yes, obviously.
He throws the Bronco into park, which I find incredibly distracting because his forearms are a work of art, and his serious gaze takes me in like he’s making a thoughtful analysis. “Can I be honest?”
My eyes go wide. “Nevermind. Forget I asked,” I giggle nervously and start to open my door.
His big hand covers mine as I fumble with my seatbelt. “You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. If I’m being honest,” he adds with a wink.
His hand squeezes mine, and he leaves me there, stunned motionless in his car. He jogs around to my door and opens it, and the first thing I notice is that it’s noticeably cooler here. We must be higher in the mountains than I thought. We’re surrounded by tall pine trees, shrubs, and boulders, and the breeze is fresh and almost chilly. Goosebumps pop up on my arms. I wonder if I’ll regret not bringing a sweater when Joe opens the tailgate and I spy a stack of firewood and a big camp chair. Only one?Do I get to sit on Joe’s lap?
He pulls out the chair and slings it over his big shoulder, turning toward the clearing we’ve parked beside. “Is this okay? I figured you probably get a lot of fancy restaurants at home, but maybe not so many campfires and stars?” His big, brown eyes search mine looking for something. Is henervous? “Good surprise?”
“I never get campfires and stars. It’s agreatsurprise.” I am genuinely excited. Just me and Joe with no one watching? No obligatory photos to post later? Pine trees and roasted marshmallows?Yes, please.“Did you bring marshmallows?” I realize too late that I sound over eager. I’d blame it on all the Cherry Coke I drank this afternoon, but I know better.I get Joe all to myself tonight.
He answers with a chuckle, “Yes, and graham crackers and chocolate. If you behave I might share. We’ll see how you do.”
I bump him with my hip and nod toward the firewood. “Can I help?”
“And ruin that pretty dress? Not a chance.” He unfolds the camp chair, which I realize now is a wide, two-seater, and places it next to the fire ring. The view of his arms while he performs this chore is spectacular, and I blush when he catches me staring. This is getting out of hand. I have to stop obsessing over the man’s arms. “Have a seat and I’ll show the city girl how to build a fire,” he says with a half smile. Mercer and Sunny are crazy. This man is always smiling, it’s just half of one.
“How dare you, sir. I know how to start a fire. There’s always a switch next to the fireplace. Easy peasy.”
He laughs. “Forgive me. I didn’t realize I invited Sacajawea on this outing.”
Now he's loading his arms with firewood, which he props into a tidy teepee shape in the fire ring. The process has me mesmerized and I fall silent, watching him work. It's clear that he's done this a few times. He strikes a few wooden matches, tucking them inside the teepee until wisps of smoke curl skyward. He stuffs more and more twigs underneath, and blows short puffs of air into the pile until tiny flames jump toward the bigger pieces of firewood. Eventually the flames curl higher, the wood popping and crackling as it settles and I’m mesmerized. He made fire. The whole process is primitive and so foreign to me, I immediately decide that I need to learn this skill.
“Will you teach me how to do that?” My voice is barely a squeak. I feel silly asking, because I’m leaving here in a few short weeks and when will I ever need to start a fire without a switch or remote control? That thought is a downer.
“Light a fire?” At my nod he continues, “Sure. Next time."
Next time?My heart is galloping as I soak in that possibility, along with the scent of campfire and pine in the purple twilight. All sad thoughts of going home have left my mind and I’m fully enveloped in the magic of Joe Pratt, like I walked into Disneyland. I can think about sad things like work and real life in the morning. It’s Joe time. Please remain seated until the ride comes to a full and complete stop.
He sits next to me, leaning his elbows on his long legs to poke at the fire. I regret that I didn’t sit closer to the middle of the chair. This thing is way too spacious. Will Joe notice if I scoot toward the center and incrementally inch my way onto his lap? Probably. I stay where I am, content to brush my knee against his leg, sniffing his clean scent.
We spend hours talking and teasing, until the fire burns down to a pile of embers and my stomach is full of s’mores. I discover two things: One, Joe is a meticulous roaster of perfect marshmallows. And two, he is a font of hilarious, blackmail-worthy stories about both Mercer and Sunny. We laugh when I tell him how I ended up in this small town, and how I stole a shower from him. He looks pained at the fact that I traded my Range Rover for The Hulk, reminding me that I could have easily slept in the back of a Range Rover. Which is true, I suppose, but where is the adventure in that? Or the drama of a hasty departure?
The warmth of the fire barely reaches my toes now, and I curl my legs under me with a shiver, using my dress as a blanket. The chill reminds me of another pressing need, which I’ve been studiously ignoring pretty much since I sat down: I very much need to pee. Dang Mercer and the gallon of Cherry Coke she forced me to drink!
I brush off the thought yet again, and Joe shifts in our shared seat. “Are you cold? Here,” he says, and I turn to find his arm stretched out, open and waiting for me. I lean into his solid side and his heavy arm curls around my shoulders pulling me even closer. “Better?” His low voice rumbles close to my ear.
His voice sends another quiver through my body. Every point of contact is electric—his arm around me, our sides pressed together, my curled up legs tucked against his thigh. “So much better,” I say with a sigh, and he squeezes my shoulder.
Apparently we’re all talked out now, so we listen to the embers crackling in the silence, with Joe’s thumb tracing circles on my arm. It’s gotten late and it’s time to leave. We're both stalling. His breath deepens and his body shifts. Without a word his free hand reaches across and takes my hand, placing my fingers against the stubbly spot below his jaw. He swallows against my fingertips.
“Can you feel that?” he asks on an exhale, with a chuckle in his deep voice that thrums in my fingertips. His pulse is racing and that half smile of his makes an appearance.
I bite my lip and nod. “I can feel it. You doing okay?”
“I’m worried about my heart.” His eyes find mine, his eyebrows drawing together. “It hasn’t done this in a long time.”
I pull his strong fingers toward me and place them against the same spot on my neck, covering his hand in mine, holding him in place. “No one has ever done this to my heart. Not like this.” It is a huge thing to admit, but it is the truth. I have never felt so immediately connected to someone. I have never felt electricity like this with a man, even (or especially) with Miles. But I don’t want to think about my ex-boyfriend right now, not with Joe’s insanely handsome face looking at mine.
His gaze darkens and he leans in. I’m worried that he can feel my heart hammering away, but he curls his hand around the back of my neck, burying his fingers in my hair. We are barely a breath apart. His warm chest rises and falls against me. His eyes dart to my lips and back to my eyes, looking for permission. And I really, really want to give it to him.
But here’s the thing: I still need to pee.
I know, I know. I hate myself as much as anyone does at this moment. Because as much as I want to drag Joe’s face toward mine and kiss him until we both pass out from lack of oxygen, I don’t want my memory of our kiss to be marred by the panicked worry that I might pee my pants—er, dress—at any moment. It is a pressing, distracting need. I know my face reflects the stress of my predicament when Joe pulls back.
Oh Indie, you loveable idiot. Why did you drink so much Coke?I squeeze Joe’s hand. “Can we pause, just for a minute?” The embarrassment, such a familiar feeling now, courses through my veins and throughout my body. My face is on fire, and I decide to spit it out because there’s truly no time to waste: “I… have to pee.”
