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I love Shane.
Of course I love him.
He’s so perfectly imperfect. Raw and real. Flawed and grouchy while having the sweetest soul. And for a man who doesn’t talk much, he always seems to say the right thing.
No doubt about it. I’m undeniably, helplessly, catastrophically in love with him.
Which…
Is an issue now that I’m aware of it.
You’re thinking, Willow, what’s the problem? That sounds kind of nice.
The problem is I can’t keep a secret to save my life.
Which means I’m going to end up spilling the beans in a rambling mess if I don’t lock this down. Because, surely, it’s too early for love confessions. If I told Shane and he didn’t feel the same, I would wither into a tiny lifeless blob.
No. The best thing is to bide my time.
Maybe, eventually, he might love me back.
That’s when we’ll have the adult conversation.
Because right now, I’d rather set my canvas on fire than ruin what Shane and I have.
“Bubble. Just keep it in the bubble,” I mutter.
And then, in what feels like a poetic gesture from the universe, my marshmallows burst into flames.
When I don’t do anything to save them, because I’m trapped in a frozen state, Shane leans over, taking my roasting stick and wiping the burnt sugar against a log. He even goes so far as to clean the tines, ensuring they’re not too hot before skewering new marshmallows. The handle appears in front of me, but I blink at it like he’s offering me a wet toad.
“Willow, what’s wrong?”
The worry in Shane’s voice snaps me back to reality. I draw in a noisy breath, sounding like I just surfaced from the bottom of the ocean.
“Me? I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be fine?”
When he eyes me dubiously, the perfect answer pings in my brain.
“Actually, I’m mad.” I set my skewer on the table, cross my arms, and tilt my chin away.
“Mad?”
“Yep. I’m mad that you don’t think I can keep my hands to myself if we share the bed.”
“I’m not worried about you.”
His words are laced with so much growly heat I can practically feel my pupils dilating.
I tug at the collar of my sweatshirt. “Then I’m mad at you for not having more restraint. Aren’t you taught to not swing at every ball and whatnot.”
Shane exhales long and hard. “That’s not the same—”
“I’m telling you no,” I interrupt, my mind on a roll now. “I’m telling you there will be no kissing, only peaceful sleeping—well, not exactly peaceful. You should expect a few kidney punches.”
When the corner of his mouth kicks up, it feels like warm sunshine after being trapped in a cave.
“You wake up swinging?”
