Page 8 of Silver Brewer

I nod with a scowl as if my stomach hasn’t just roiled. Of course, she has a man. She’s too pretty to be alone. Suddenly, she laughs.

“He’s my friend. Friend-friend, not a boyfriend,” she clarifies. “He’s gay. I’m single as a Pringle,” she admits, then points at me. “You should see your face.” Her laughter is like a rain shower on a sunny day, unexpected and refreshing. As I stare at her, absorbing the sound, her chuckle subsides.

“Anyway, and your wife?”

“She’s dead.” I don’t mean it as harsh as it comes out, and I hate how my voice cracks despite the years since her death.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she whispers, and I hate the words on her lips even more.

“Cancer sucks,” I mutter, and she looks away with a pained look on her face.

“Yes, it does.” Her face drifts back for mine. We hold each other’s eyes for a moment, and I wonder what it would feel like to hold her. It’s been a long time since I’ve known the comfort of such things.

“So.” She claps. “Should we…?” She raises her hands and tips her hitched thumbs over her shoulder to the cabin.

“And you’re okay with being alone with me?” I’m suddenly second-guessing myself.

“I don’t have anything to worry about, right?”

There’s an unspoken question, but I don’t know what she’s implying. “Nope, not a worry in the world. I’m gay.” I wink, and her mouth pops open. The pink circle of her lips makes my dick flinch with thoughts of what she could do with such a mouth. I point back at her. “You should see your face.”

“Are you…teasing me? Is that actually a grin?” Her grin grows, and her eyes twinkle to match the day’s sky. Does she think I don’t smile? My lips twist, attempting to hold back the unnatural curl. “Are you laughing at me?”

“I never laugh,” I say, holding back the rumble in my throat. She makes me want to laugh a little.

“I didn’t think so,” she mutters, a smile still on her lips, and turns for the side of my cabin. “So, camping?”

I step up next to her and point upward. Her eyes follow the line of my finger. “Up there.”

The strip of land I own is narrow and long. Up an old miner’s trail about three miles is the place I plan for us to share our nights. Not together, of course. Just trying to break her of her idea that she wants this land.

“But I thought…” She hesitates. I eye her outfit again as she eyes my cabin.

“Nope. Outdoors. Tent. Campfire. Stars.” She’s going to back down before we even start, and I have to admit the disappointment niggles at me. She blinks in the sunshine, looking up the slope of the mountain behind the cabin.

“Okay,” she whispers.

Okay? My feet want to do a happy dance, and I’m not a happy dance kind of guy. My chest swells with pride that she didn’t back down so quickly, and I worry I’m having a heart attack from the excitement. I can’t believe she agreed to this scheme.

“Got a bag?”

“Oh. Oh yes.” When she rushes back to the Jetta, a little city car, I wonder how she’s made it up and down the rutted ridges of the two-tire lane leading back to my cabin. Her vehicle isn’t made for such travel. I follow her to the trunk, and she pops it open. Inside is a large backpack.

“You gonna carry all that for three miles?” I whistle. I don’t believe she has the strength, and I’m ready for her to argue. She tilts her head around the vehicle and looks up the mountain rise behind the cabin one more time.

“I didn’t know what I’d need.”

“I have all the provisions already.” Her wide eyes almost make me chuckle, but I bite the inside of my cheek, reminding myself I don’t want to like her. She wants my land. “It looks like you packed for a week.” I have no faith she’ll make it past one night, let alone three, but that swollen heart thing feels like hope that she’ll stick it out, and hope is dangerous.

“I didn’t know what I’d need,” she repeats, her voice lowering as she lugs the overstuffed hiking bag—also brand new—from her trunk. The effort almost knocks her over, and I reach for the thing.

“What’s in here?” I snap. The bag probably weighs more than her.

“I didn’t know—” she begins, but I hold a hand up to stop her from speaking. I tug the bag from her and unceremoniously unzip the pack. Rummaging through her clothing, I notice several with price tags and a few unmentionables that are nothing more than scraps of lace. I pull out one slim piece in black.

“You’re going camping, not to a fashion show.”

“Are you finished fondling my undies?” she snaps, reaching around me and pushing my hands from her bag. My dick does a dance as I consider her wearing only the lacy fabric and nothing more.