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Oh. Crap.
Eyeing me expectantly because he just told me what he was thinking, which I asked for and also stupidly zoned out of at the end.
“Sorry, what was that last part?”
Greyson chuckles, pats me. “It’s fine. I’m dead tired too. Just eat your plantains and leave the worrying to me.”
“Hey,” I say, though he’s a few steps away. “Seriously, what did you say?”
Let him leave, a voice in my head warns me.
But there’s something else in me, angry and hot and eager. And just curious. I do want to know.
“Just that I have to talk about the logistics of all this to Russel, but if it’s possible, best thing would be to film some scenes on our way to the camp, too. Takes the pressure off of getting a ton of good shots all within a few days of each other.”
“Good idea,” I say.
“Good,” he says.
“Good,” I say.
I swallow back a groan at my own lameness.
Harley, it’s official: you are an idiot.
“OK.” He clears his throat, was clearly done with this conversation minutes ago. He holds out a hand. “Thanks again. Happy to have you on the team.”
“I’m more of a hugger,” I say breezily. Next thing I know my arms are around him, and his are around me, and it feels… outstanding.
Yep, now I know what those Harlequin novels mean when they talk about being ‘weak in the knees’.
I inhale his pine scent and have to practically choke back my utterly pleased exhale. Nothing like a horny exhale to ruin your whole cool vibe in front of your boss.
And his arms feel even more substantial than they look. Like there isn’t a safer place in the world.
Too soon, he’s drawing away, hardly looking at me—did he enjoy that as much as I did? Was that a stupid idea?
“See you, Harley—oh.” He pauses again. “Almost forgot.” He hands me a nifty-looking flashlight. “Take this.”
I eye it, but don’t move. “Don’t you need a flashlight too?”
“Russel has a bunch of extras. I heard you stumbling around last night with your phone flashlight. You could use this.”
“Oh.” Good thing it’s so hot out that my cheeks are probably flushed anyway. “How did you know that was me?”
Greyson’s smile is off; he probably feels odd admitting it. “Figured no one else would say ‘drat!’”
I laugh. “Blame my high school years in England, I guess.”
“Oh. Is that where your…”
“Accent came from?” I say. “Maybe. I mean, my mom always loved to sing instead of talk to us, and I had Russian, Spanish and Indian nannies growing up, so that might’ve done it, too.”
“Ah, OK.”
Is he feeling it too, this strange current that seems to keep drawing us back into conversation again and again, like a magnet?
He holds out the flashlight closer to me. “I mean it. Take it.”
I grab it. “Alright. Would be nice for my phone to have some life so I can talk to my cousin Hannah anyway.”
Like lightning, his hand goes into his pocket. “I have a power bank too, if you need to charge your phone.”
I laugh. “At this rate, we’ll be here all day with you repacking my bag and supplies for me.”
“I—”
“Greyson!” Russel calls. “This game plan won’t draft itself!”
“I’d better go.” He smiles apologetically, starts heading away, although his head is still turned my way, his eyes never leaving mine.
“See ya,” I say.
“See ya,” he says, finally looking away.
I can only stare at his back as he walks away, finally sitting down right where I stood. If this looks weird or antisocial or whatever, too freaking bad. I need to get my head around what just happened.
What the hell just happened?
Did I just have the easiest conversation with the man that I swore I would under no circumstances sleep with?
Did he just act like a gentleman several times?
I switch the flashlight on and off, shining its beam onto a patch of shade, toggling through the different modes. Way better than my phone flashlight, way way better than my phone flashlight, eons away from my phone flashlight.
As I finally remember to bite into my plantains, I can only reflect that one thing is for sure: this is going to be one hell of a trip, in more ways than one.Chapter 5Greyson
“Not that I blame you for being distracted,” Russel says convivially, stirring something that looks like a mix between manure and stew, “But Miss PrettyPants is going to be having a rough time if we don’t figure out how to voyage through the jungle in one piece.
“Miss PrettyPants,” I say, deadpan.
How is it morning and I’m already annoyed with the guy? Is Russel hinting at what I think he is? At least he had the tact to save this conversation until now, when it’s just us, but still.
“Yeah,” he continues, “Your fit little blonde friend. She’s nice to look at, but she won’t be as nice if she gets eaten by a grumpy mother puma.”
