Feels like Rain (Lake Fisher 3)

When I’m done, I have an absolute mess of a cake. I did pinch a little piece of it off to taste it, and it tastes like cake is supposed to taste. It’s sweet and it’s the right consistency, but it’s the ugliest cake I’ve ever seen. I iced it, and then I tried to write happy birthday in cursive on top of it, but my writing was sloppy, so it looks more like jagged swirls than words. Nevertheless, it’s his birthday and I’m taking it to him.

I pick up the cake, opting to leave it unwrapped and open to the air, and I walk down to where his tent is. But when I arrive, he’s not there. The campsite is empty. I look around, but he’s nowhere nearby. Then I hear it. I hear the little quacking sound, and I walk out to the main road, where he must be coming back from the lake. The little black and green duck waddles along behind him, and that’s the ruckus I heard. I grin as I watch him walk with the little duck running along at his heels.

“And here I thought I was your best friend,” I say. He freezes, his eyes darting toward the cake plate I’m holding aloft. I start to very softly sing the happy birthday song, and he grins. I can tell he’s trying to bite it back, but he can’t.

“How did you know?” he asks, wonder in his voice as he stares at the monstrosity of a cake.

“I remembered,” I say with a shrug. His eyes meet mine and he stares into them so long that I forget how to breathe.

“Thank you,” he says. He dips his head and kisses my cheek really quickly, and I know I probably turn another ten shades of red, if the heat that’s filling my face is any indication. He looks at the cake and laughs. “That’s a hell of a cake.”

“I made it myself,” I say with a small curtsy. He chuckles, tossing his head back as his mouth falls open with laughter. He has a small picnic table next to his tent, so I go and set the cake down on it. “Where have you been?”

His hair is wet, and he has a damp towel around his naked shoulders. I jerk my eyes up from his abs, because…hello! He has abs for days. I reach out like I’m going to touch him, but I jerk my hand back at the last minute.

“Sorry,” I say. “I just wanted to see if they’re real.” I look at his shoulders. “Holy cow, you’re, like, totally ripped.” He has muscles upon muscles. He’s not bulky, but he definitely works on his body.

This time, it’s his turn to go pink. “Stop it,” he says. He dips his head so he can dry his hair with the towel.

“Did you go swimming?” I look at his abs again and lick my lips, exaggerating my stare.

He flicks at me with the towel, and it makes a cracking sound as it snaps right in front of me. “Cut it out. You’re embarrassing me.”

“You don’t have a single thing to be embarrassed about,” I tell him, and I let my eyes drag lazily down his body. I lift my hand again and ask very cheekily, “Can I touch them?” I look directly at his abs, which ripple under my stare.

“No, you may not touch them,” he says. But then he laughs as he grabs my hand and gives it a shove.

“Are you sure, because they look like they might enjoy it.”

He holds the towel at the ready position, and I know he’s about to flick me again, and I really don’t care. “You’re making me feel cheap,” he says.

“You could be on one of those man calendars,” I say, excitement in my voice. “You know, like the ones where firefighters hold puppies against their naked chests.” I mime holding a puppy near my body.

“I don’t have a puppy,” he grumbles.

“Oh!” I point to the duck. “You could totally hold your duck.” I look at the little guy, who is happy pecking at grass as he sits at Ethan’s feet. “Can I pet him?” I bend down, but he waddles away from me to hide behind Ethan’s leg.

“I don’t think he likes you,” he says. “Which means he has good taste, because I don’t like you very much either.” He feigns an offended sniff, and I glare at him.

“But I brought cake!” I whisper-hiss at him. I let my eyes drag down his chest again. “And you brought the abs.” I waggle my brows at him. “I can’t believe you hide this under clothes all day. If I were you and I looked like that, I’d never wear clothes.”

“Stop it,” he says again. But he’s grinning when he sits down across from the cake.

I reach into my back pocket and pull out the candle—courtesy of Shy—and the lighter I found in Gran’s junk drawer. I light his candle, and I sing the birthday song again. “Make a wish.” I motion him forward. “Then blow out your candle.”

He stares into my eyes just long enough for it to get uncomfortable, and then he closes his eyes, mouths some words, and blows out the single candle that adorns the ugly cake. He sits back and smiles at me. “Thank you.”

I motion up and down his body. “The pleasure was all mine.” I waggle my brows at him again.

“You need to stop that,” he warns, but he’s chuckling too. He scratches his nose and looks at the cake.

“Oh, shoot, I forgot to bring something to cut it w

ith,” I say, as I look around. He has a tiny stove set-up, but there are no utensils or plates. I should have anticipated this.

He jumps up and goes to a tote box next to the tiny stove, and he takes out two plastic forks. He hands me one with a flourish.

“Why, thank you,” I say as I turn to the cake. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to cut a piece or what. He didn’t give me a plate, maybe because he doesn’t have any. “Chocolate is still your favorite, right?”