Page 63 of More Than My Hometown

“Oh no, I thought about us having sex in a tent,” she admits. “Senior year in high school. That trip we took the weekend before Rhythm and Brews, when our parents actually agreed to let us go, just us? When you only brought the one tent, I thought maybe something might happen, and kept waiting for you to make a move. But you were a perfect gentleman all weekend.”

I groan internally, remembering every minute of that weekend like it was last week. What had inspired both the Phillipses and the Hayeses to suddenly waive the “no unchaperoned boy-girl overnight trips” rule is still beyond me, but Maisey and I jumped on the chance to get away, sans parents. Looking back on it, I can’t help but wonder if that was their way of condoning more than a friendship between us, thinking that we would cross the line if left alone.

Except, Maisey’s right—I left the line completely untouched.

Something that took a level of self-restraint that I still think is worthy of a gold medal.

“You have no idea how much I didn’t want to be. Had I known you didn’t want me to be either…”

My dick twitches at the memory, my hands itching to hold her right now just thinking about all of this. I need something to cool my ardor. A change of subject.

“Want to know what I want our future to look like?” I ask, hoping it’s enough to distract her.

“More than anything.”

“I want to hire someone else to help me run the store. Dennis is great, but he works for exactly two reasons. One—so that Abigal isn’t always fussin’ at him about being under foot all day, and two—so he gets a discount on fishing gear. If it were legal, I’m pretty sure he’d let me pay him in store credit. What I need is someone who can really take over, full-time, and be a retail manager for me.”

Maisey looks at me with an intent focus, her interest piqued. “You want to step away from the store?”

“Not completely. I still enjoy getting in all the new toys and helping people learn and be properly equipped. But if I can get someone who is fully focused on that, I can turn my attention to the guided tours and environmental education side of things. I want to grow that portion of the business a lot more. Which I think I can—I’ve got a few irons in the fire, so to speak. There’s a decent market for it, believe it or not.”

“I absolutely believe it.”

“Plus, it has the added benefit of giving me flexibility to really be a hands-on dad and work around your ER schedule.”

“What?”

The question is out of her so fast, I question if she actually heard me or is just surprised by my answer. Time to double down.

“I presume you want to go back to an ER, which potentially means nights, weekends, and twelve-hour shifts. Not having to do retail, which also has those, means I have extra flexibility for that matching set you want.”

Maisey leaps from her chair, dropping her roasting stick onto the ground and tackling me in a hug. The force from her landing in my lap is enough to make the chair rock, but thankfully not fully knock us over. I wrap my arms around her, pulling her in close as she buries her face into my neck.

“You’re gonna burn your hot dog.”

“I don’t care about that.”

She squeezes me tighter, head still buried, and I feel tears against my neck. Damn, I hope those are happy tears. I squeeze her back, holding on tight and cherishing this moment. I spent too long without her not to hold on every chance I get.

“Fuck the hot dog…” she mutters.

“Not gonna do that. Not even sure how that would work.” I chuckle. “You, on the other hand…”

Maisey sits up, her eyes glossy with unshed tears, playfully shoving me. I shrug, not at all sorry for my comment.

“I love you, Ewan.”

“I love you, Maisey. That’s never changed.”

Shifting in my lap, she reaches down into the cooler. I try to lean over to see what she’s after, but can’t get a good look from this angle without risking us toppling over. A second later, her hand reappears, holding up a ketchup packet.

“What’s that for?”

A sly smile tugs at the corner of her mouth, her tears gone and replaced by an impish look that only Maisey can pull off. Ripping the packet open with her teeth, she takes my hand, squeezing out a portion of the red condiment, then following suit on her own hand.

“We already made the pact about no more secrets, but we didn’t swear it in ketchup.”

“We said we didn’t need to,” I remind her.