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Why did I say that? That’s a terrible excuse.
“Support?” she repeats, slowly.
“Structural support.”
She doesn’t say anything to that.
I gesture vaguely with my free hand. “Or you know what, maybe I should be asking you why you decided my arm made a great pillow?”
She frowns. Then she shifts, not much, but enough. And I know the exact moment she feels it.
“Oh my god,” she gasps, scrambling forwards like the tent is on fire. “Was that— were you— Tom!”
I sit up too quickly and immediately smack my head on the side of the tent. Deserved.
“It’s not like I did it on purpose!” I hiss. “It’s the morning! Biology! It’s a completely involuntary—”
“I don’t want to talk about your involuntary anything!” she says, now fully upright. Her T-shirt has ridden up. I get a glimpse of her toned stomach and the edge of the boxers she borrowed before she realises, flushes and pulls it down. It’s too late. We both know I looked.
Her eyes flick up and down my body and I swear that they darken. Maybe I’m not the only one who’s affected by this. There’s a tense silence where we both just stare at each other.
“Fuck.” She suddenly breaks my gaze and looks around. “I need to get back to my tent. I’ll give you your clothes later.”
“Claire—”
She pauses at the tent flap.
I sit up fully, scrubbing a hand over my face. “We should probably talk properly at some point.”
Her eyes return to mine immediately, and she worries her lip between her teeth.
“Not now,” I add quickly. “We’re at work and surrounded by teenagers, which feels like the worst possible setting for whatever this is.”
And it’s also before six in the morning, meaning my brain is not highly functional.
“Right,” Claire says softly, and then she’s gone, a flurry of tangled blonde hair disappearing into a campsite full of students and birdsong.
I sit there, heart hammering, still half-draped in a sleeping bag, wondering what the hell just happened. These thoughts are too complicated for a Sunday morning. I can’t begin to untangle how the fizz of excitement from waking up next to her has curdled into something bitter as she runs away, and mixed with guilt about the fact that I might have made her uncomfortable. I’m pretty sure she was looking at me like she liked being here, but maybe I’m just seeing what I want to see.
When I stick my head out of the tent a moment later I spot James standing outside with a bottle of water. He’s smirking at me and I narrow my eyes at him.
“Don’t,” I warn, pointing a finger.
He just takes a slow sip of his water and raises his brows like he’s filing everything away for later blackmail.
Groaning, I head for the showers.
James falls into step beside me, hands in his pockets like he’s got nowhere else to be. In fairness, he probably doesn’t.
“So,” he says.
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Technically you did, and I know you. You’re definitely going to say something.”
“I’m simply going to observe,” James says, in the tone of someone who is absolutely about to do more than observe, “that you had a certain blonde marketing professional in your tent last night. And I happen to know that you rather like her.”
