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“And why’s that?”
“Well… 4th graders are old enough to follow directions and work independently. But they’re still young enough to not be jaded little assholes.” I pause, “For the most part.”
The loud, deep laugh bursts out of Beckett, and it’s the sound wet dreams are made of. But it’s also so unexpected that I flinch. The movement throws off my balance and I reach out with my free hand to steady myself on the only thing within reach. Beckett.
My hand is flat against his body, placed firmly against his stomach. Just inches above the top of his jeans.
The muscles clench under my touch.
Ohmygod. Ohmyfuckinggod, he’s rock solid.
His laugh cuts off, and I don’t know what to do with the look in his eyes. But I can’t look away. Both of us trapped in this stasis.
Sensing an added stillness around us, I slowly turn my head and find the whole crowd of campers staring. At us. Beckett’s laugh apparently caught the attention of everyone in earshot.
I snatch my hand back from Beckett’s stomach, but he still has a hold of my other wrist, and he doesn’t let go.
His grip on me tightens for a heartbeat before he loosens it, slowly letting me go.
A shrill whistle has me jumping again.
“Time for dinner!” Mr. Olson addresses the group, shooting a narrowed look our way.
I think I hear Beckett mumble something about “making that asshole eat his whistle” but I can’t be sure, because I’m already fleeing across the campsite. Desperate for a few moments alone in my tent. To compose myself, not to rub one out. Definitely not.
