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After shaking all the sand out of the beach towel, he receded into the tent, zipped the door closed and lay underneath it.
It provided about as much warmth as a chewing gum wrapper.
Miles stared at the ceiling of the tent and thought about how much of his book smarts he’d sacrifice for some common sense. How could he forget the sleeping bag? It didn’t matter that he was on track to becoming a doctor, not when he might freeze to death before he could achieve that dream.
Stop. It was a simple mistake, and he wasn’t going to freeze to death. The tent protected him from the wind, and Beckett’s hoodie gave him some warmth. It’d be fine.
Miles heard footsteps approach and poked his head through the door of the tent. The moon gave off enough silvery light for him to see Beckett in his plaid pajamas, which were the kind an eighty-year-old grandpa might wear, but he made them look weirdly sexy.
“Hey,” Beckett said, crouching down. The top three buttons of his pajama shirt were unbuttoned, giving Miles a full view of Beckett’s chest. “Settled in alright?”
“Mm-hmm. That sleeping mat you brought for me is comfy. Thanks,” Miles said.
Beckett raised his head to try to look over Miles’s shoulder into the tent. “You sure you’re comfortable?”
Miles shifted, blocking Beckett’s view. “Yep.”
Beckett frowned. “What’s wrong?”
Miles pulled the two sides of the tent door tight around the base of his neck. “Nothing’s wrong.”
“You’re being suspicious.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You don’t want me to see inside for some reason.” Beckett’s hands reached out for tent door.
Miles clutched onto the plastic material, not letting Beckett take it. “I’m naked,” he blurted.
“No, you’re not. I can see you’re wearing my hoodie.”
“I’m naked from the waist down.”
That made Beckett’s hands freeze. “Why?”
“Because I was…” Miles scrambled for a good reason, but all he could say was, “you know…”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“You know…” Miles said again.
Beckett’s eyes went wide. “Do you mean…”
“Yep. That.” Whatever that was.
Wait—was Beckett alluding to jerking off? Did Beckett even know what jerking off was?
That was a silly question, of course Beckett knew. Probably.
The more important question was whether Beckett—Beckett, who seemed to have never had a sexual thought in his life—jerked off. If so, how? Did he sit up or lie down? Did he tease himself, or did he do it fast and rough, getting it over with as soon as possible? Did he watch porn, or did he use his imagination? If he used his imagination, what did he fantasize about?
“Miles?” Beckett stared at him.
Fuck, Miles had done it again—started wondering about Beckett’s sex life when the man was right in front of him. He really needed to stop. It wasn’t the sort of thing a best friend did.
Miles cleared his throat. “I should clarify that I was not, in fact, jerking it—”
As expected, Beckett flinched at the words.
