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Elouise
I’m so on edge,I’m about to crawl out of my skin.
I was so turned-on during dinner that I was tempted to push everything off the picnic table and lay myself out as a meal for Beckett.
I didn’t. Obviously. But that man knows exactly what he does to me, and he tortured me with his closeness all evening.
First, he made stew. And I don’t mean he dumped cans of stew into a pot and heated it on a camp stove. No. First, he built a fire. With his bare hands. Then he suspended a large pot - that looked more like a medieval cauldron – filled with water over that fire. And then he used a big, intimidating butcher knife to chop vegetables and beef and herbs and ohmygod it was like living in a highlander romance.
By the time he was done prepping, he was down to just a single layer. A thin, long-sleeved shirt that clung to every one of his bulging muscles. Muscles that I slept against last night.
But his torment didn’t end there.
After letting everything simmer together, he personally dished out dinner for the whole camp. A sexy lumberjack of a man, lit by firelight, feeding a swarm of children… I don’t have dreams of having a hoard of kids but watching his display had my ovaries high fiving each other.
Finally, when I had my own bowl, I thought I’d be free of him. Except I wasn’t.
I don’t know if he managed to put an invisible “seat taken” sign on the spot next to me, but it stayed open until the man himself sat down next to me. Only it wasn’t really a Beckett sized space, so I spent the whole of dinner with his thigh pressed against mine. His arm pressed against my shoulder. His knuckles brushing against the back of my hand.
I didn’t want to make it obvious that my blood was smoldering, so I toughed it out. I pretended I was unaffected. I acted like my body wasn’t begging for him to pull me onto his lap.
But the second people started to get up, ready for bed, I bolted.
Only, that didn’t solve my problem. Because now I’m here, in my tent, wearing my sleep pants and my see-through tank top, huddled inside the extra-large sleeping bag, waiting.
Waiting for Beckett.
I wasn’t sure this morning, but now I’m almost positive he’ll be coming back tonight.
The looks. The touches. They told me exactly what he was thinking. And he was thinking about me.
I snuggle lower under the covers.
Beckett Stoleman was thinking about me.
Like that. And it’s our last night, so if he really is interested, he needs to act.
I still can’t get over this whole bizarre situation.
It’s not that I have terrible self-esteem. I don’t. I know I have a lot to offer. Sure, I might not be everyone’s dream girl, but I know that I am for some guys. Some guys like curves and brains and a dirty mouth. I just wasn’t sure if Beckett was one of those guys.
Honestly, when I try to picture who I think he’d end up with, I flash back to that cursed Christmas Party fifteen years ago. To the perky, skinny, blonde that came in and stole his attention away from me.
I blink away the memory. I don’t need to be thinking of that night. Making myself feel insecure will not help my current state of mind.
Whatever I’ve thought in the past, Beckett is here now. And he’s interested in me.
Footsteps approach my tent and I hold my breath.
This is it.
The footsteps walk past.
This isn’t it.
I exhale.
Chill, Lou.
