12
SLOANE
I wakeup warm for the first time in two days, which should be my first indication that things have gone horribly wrong.
The second sign is the scent curling into my nostrils underneath the loamy sweetness of the forest. An indefinable male spice that fuckboys all over the world would pay good money to bottle, as it would guarantee a never-ending line of willing partners.
Not me, of course.
I gave up fuckboys around the same time I gave up recreational drugs, and I don’t miss either. They both left me feeling sick and full of regret. At least the drugs were a known evil. The guys, not so much.
But it’s tempting.
Except… wait.
The nylon walls of the tent glow with early morning light as I open my eyes. And, oh shit. Turns out the source of all that olfactory temptation is Jensen, who I’m wrapped around like a milk-drunk kitten. I managed to unzip half of my sleeping bag during the night, and one arm and leg are staking their claim across the front of him. His sleeping bag is still zipped, a puffydown barrier that my unconscious body decided was more of a suggestion than a rule.
Maybe he hasn’t noticed, and I can subtly retract my rogue limbs and…
I feel him shift beneath me and glance up to find him looking at me with a smile that holds way too much wattage for my pre-caffeinated brain.
His lips move, but the sound is muffled by my earplugs. I yank them out at the same time I peel my arm and leg off his body and roll away, pressing myself against the tent wall so that approximately six inches of barely-there space separates us.
“I said good morning.” His grin gentles as he stares at me. “In case you were wondering.”
“I wasn’t, and I didn’t mean—” I stuff the earplugs into the pocket of my sleeping bag and try to fix my face so it communicates dignified indifference and not the mortification burning me up from the inside out. “To molest you in my sleep.”
“You’re in luck, because I don’t have a no-no square.” He folds his long arms behind his head like a man who’s never been embarrassed a day in his life. “At least not one you need to worry about violating.”
Unlike Jensen, I’m not amused. I’m a wanton skank. Not my brain, which has done its level best to remain unaffected by him for the better part of two days. My body, in contrast, is a shameless, heat-seeking traitor who mounted a country music star in the middle of the night like a rodeo cowgirl.
“It was a mistake.” I sound more certain than I feel, which is a small gift.
Even though I’ve pulled away as much as the tent’s tiny interior will allow, I feel him tense next to me, frustratingly in tune with every micro-shift Jensen makes, whether it’s a deep inhale or involuntary flex of muscle.
“Which part?” he asks, the teasing gonefrom his voice. “The part where you climbed me like a jungle gym in your sleep or Nashville?”
All of it, I want to tell him. But denying the connection between us is getting harder with every mile we cover. The truth is, pretending I want him gone—acting like his showing up here was the worst thing that could have happened to me—takes more energy than I have left to give.
I made Jeremy watch my favorite rom-com,Ten Things I Hate About You,at least six times during those weeks in the hospital room at Vanderbilt Medical Center when I was too exhausted to hold a book. Literal enemies-to-lovers perfection. And oh, young Heath Ledger. Rest in peace, you beautiful man.
But right now I’m not thinking about Heath’s soulful eyes or Kat and Patrick’s banter. I’m thinking about the poem Julia Stiles read out loud in class at the end. How of the ten things she hated about him, the thing she hated most was that she didn’t hate him.
Not even a little bit. Not even at all.
So I don’t answer.
I sit up and slide into the Birks I left near the tent’s entrance. “Nature calls,” I say, then make the mistake of glancing back over my shoulder.
Jensen is now propped on both elbows, his sleeping bag tented in a very specific area that shouldnotmake my breath hitch in the chilly air.
“It’s just morning.” His voice is rough with sleep (or something else) and completely unapologetic. “You can ignore it.”
“I plan to.”Myvoice is two octaves higher than usual and accompanied by a tiny yelp that I will forever deny making.
Morning or not, my body wants to crawl back into the tent and unzip his sleeping bag, and do more of that jungle gym business. Except on purpose this time, and with fewer layers between us.
Nope. Not gonna happen. Not in this lifetime, which is all I’ve got.
