“Funcles?” Kate scrunches her nose. “Does that stand for ‘fake uncles?’” I was thinking the same thing.
“It’s ‘fun uncles.’”
I look at Bree, pointing out the obvious. “We’re not even related.”
“Might as well be.”
It’s kind of true. The Wilder clan has embraced us with open arms, even stepping in to give my mom some relief with my babies while we’re all here at the dude ranch. Seeing them in their canopied pool floats with Bree’s and Izzy’s boyfriends pulled at my heartstrings. Their brothers and uncle were there, too, along with Bree’s bestie, who couldn’t make our girls’ trip because of a work commitment.
We finally decide that a round of slapjack sounds fun. We play for several minutes, the backs of our hands throbbing with pain from the energy we’re all putting into winning.
When it’s just me and Izzy and my twin battling it out, a familiar voice chuckles behind me. All of my senses go on high alert, but I don’t turn around. I have three cards left, and Kate is one jack away from humiliation. That takes priority over whatever my nerve endings are doing to celebrate the masculine scent that just walked in.
“I see that y’all are playing some high-stakes cards in here.”
“You can just sit your famous butt down right now and play the winner. You’ll see just how high-stakes this game can me.” Izzy doesn’t even bother looking up. “Just know there’s no shame in losing.”
It’s got to be the mimosas talking. Sure, he’s hot. I’ve seen the side-glances some of the guests send him. But to call him famous?
The change in the atmosphere is not lost on me. Bree stills with her mimosa half-raised, and Cam looks a little pale. Kate and I exchange ‘this is weird’ glances, leaving Izzy free to slam her palm down on the pile, leaving Kate with very few cards left and me with none.
With a grand flourish, Izzy claims all the cards. “You ready, Cam?”
He cracks his neck, looking from me to Bree to Izzy. She doesn’t care. She blinks those gray eyes innocently, taking a sip of mimosa from her ‘loves ’ travel mug.
“What, are you scared?”
He stares at the mug with his mouth half-open, then looks around at all the cups, his eyes landing on my hot pink ‘loves happy endings’ tumbler last. He shakes his head at our ridiculousness, taps the table, and says, “Bring it on, Winthrop.”
Note to self: no more mimosas in a 40 ounce tumbler.
But I can’t shake what Izzy said. There’s an energy about Cam that I haven’t been able to name, the way a room orients toward certain people. I’ve seen it once before, standing in the front row of a concert four weeks ago, watching a crowd of thousands move like a single tide toward one man on a stage. I remember thinking it wasn’t just the music. It was something in the posture, the ease, like the person already knew the room belonged to them before they walked into it.
Cam has that. I think that’s why Izzy’s tipsy word choice rattles me more than it should. That, and the fact that he’s a great kisser.
Cam pulls the chair next to mine, flips it around, and straddles it backward. Why this is sexy, I don’t even know. But it sure as hell is. And when his thigh brushes mine? Not an accident. My pheromones definitely like it.
Izzy deals him in, and he spreads his hands flat on the table, like losing isn’t a language he speaks fluently.
When the first jack hits the table, Cam’s hand comes down a full second after Izzy’s, which makes all of us laugh. I squeeze his thigh, and he doesn’t even see the next jack coming. I’m helpful like that.
At the end of the round, he’s left with two wins out of eight. The jukebox clicks over to something slow and twangy, a song by I raise my tumbler in a silent toast to my sister’s bestie. You go, Izzy.
I’ll pretend my sister doesn’t notice.
She notices.
“Can you do 30 Seconds to Mars?”
It's a couple of hours later. I met Cam out by the glamping tents not too long after dinner. We’ve been at this game for ten minutes, where I name a band and see if Cam can imitate the singer. Then, he’ll name a person and see if I can drawa recognizable quick sketch of him or her. It’s been so fun. He’s performed Olivia Dean, JAY-Z, Sombr, and ZZ-Top. I’ve sketched Robert Downey, Jr., Sydney Sweeney, Blake Shelton, and Hudson Williams. What I’ve learned from this little game is that both of us are very interested in the other person’s talent.
The night air is a little on the cool side, so I brought my hoodie, grabbing Kate’s without thinking about it. It’s very feminine, white with a pink design in the middle.
Cam took one look at me and said, “Is that your sister’s?” I didn’t bother to answer because he already knew the answer.
He strums the chords to a slow emo song, singing the opening notes of an old 30 Seconds hit. He closes his eyes, lost in the music, his voice husky and growly and beautiful. I swear he could have recorded this song himself and made it a hit.
We’re sitting on a blanket on the riverbank, some clouds partially obscuring the moon and stars. We’re as far from the pier as we can get while still being on camp grounds, so it’s as if we are completely alone. As Cam sings, there’s a sense of familiarity that I can’t quite place, kind of like this afternoon at the saloon, which is a little unsettling. I push it away because it doesn’t even matter. Tomorrow’s my last night here.
