Page 60 of More Than My Hometown

16

EWAN

“Are you really that cold?”

Stepping out from the tent, her arms wrapped around herself inside my old hoodie, Maisey looks at me, incredulous, as if I just asked her to solve a word problem using hieroglyphics. Her beautiful, luscious frame is dwarfed in the old, faded sweatshirt, but looking at her in it, my body can’t help but react.

Because she is gorgeous.

“Yes,” she replies, a shiver ripping through her. “I thought I was prepared for the temp to drop overnight, and I was fine snuggled up next to you all night, but I feel it never got warm today.”

“C’mere.”

I hold out my arm, ready for her to slip under it. She’s not wrong; it didn’t warm up today as much as I expected, making last night’s lows feel even harsher. Spring in Georgia can be wild and unpredictable, and this one is proving to be no different. Still, Mother Nature gifted us a beautifully sunny day, even if it was on the cool side, perfect to spend playing in the river, fishing, and not having a care in the world.

Now back in my favorite clearing in the woods, I’ve got the fire going and dinner pretty much prepped, ready for a cozy night curled up with Maisey. Who is apparently as cold as if we were hanging out on Antarctica.

I scoot her in front of me so that she’s directly in front of the fire, and wrap myself around her. Letting out a sigh, she melts back into me, her muscles releasing under my hold.

“Do I need to go get the big blanket from the truck? Or are you gonna be okay?”

“Depends. Are you going to let go?”

I roll my eyes, shaking my head, but tighten my grip, nonetheless. Because when it comes to this woman, I’m a goner. I am putty in her hands, ready and willing to be molded into whatever she wants.

“I do have to make dinner at some point,” I tell her, pressing my lips to the top of her head.

The smell of her shampoo fills my nostrils, still potent from yesterday’s use, the unique, fruity scent triggering something in my brain. Happiness. It’s a smell that I’ve always associated with her. Any time I get a whiff of it, no matter where I am, my thoughts immediately go to the feel of her head on my chest. Of nights like this when we were teenagers—she complained about the cold then too—or movies on the couch. Now, I get to add a tent display in my own store to that list too.

“I hope you packed something good, since we didn’t catch anything today. At least not something you were willing to keep.”

“Don’t worry, I came prepared.”

I give her a squeeze, then let go, stepping back. Maisey squeaks in objection, turning to follow me as I reach for the camping chair behind me. Motioning for her to sit, I reach for the cooler and the bag of camping cooking utensils, pulling them closer to us.

Then, I hand her the roasting stick.

“We’re having s’mores for dinner?”

“Better.”

“What’s better than s’m⁠—”

I open the cooler, pulling out the pack of hot dogs. Maisey stops, eyes going wide, hands clasping over her mouth.

“Hot dogs…” She sighs. “I don’t think I’ve roasted hot dogs over a fire since…”

Trailing off, her face morphs as she tries to think. To be fair, I can’t remember the last time I did it either. Hot dogs are not a go-to food for me. I’ll grab one if I’m at a baseball game, or maybe at the Fourth of July picnic—although even then I’ll opt for a burger if I have the choice—but that’s about it. Truth be told, I think the only reason we were roasting hot dogs that night when we were teenagers is because we happened to have some in the house.

“You know, I feel like that night couldn’t have been the last time, but for the life of me, I can’t think of another moment.”

I cut open the package, pull out a dog, and hold Maisey’s roasting stick steady as I slide it on. Trying my best to keep my composure, despite all the dirty jokes I could make right now, I look up at my girl, her lips pressed together as she watches me. It’s clear that her mind is moving the same way mine is.

Fuck, she’s amazing.

“Because you eat a lot of hot dogs?”

Maisey shakes her head, sticking her roaster into the flame. “Not even close. Very much an American food. In Europe, there are lots of wursts and sausages, but a hot dog, that’s pure ’Murica.”