“Can we talk about that in a few hours when I’m feeling better? I doubt I’d say the right thing, but at the moment, my head is aching.”
“Like you fell off a cliff, were attacked by a snake, attacked by a falling tent, slept in the world’s most uncomfortable car, and got extremely sunburnt on the beach?”
“Yeah. That and the slight hangover.”
“Okay.” I set the bag down on the coffee table and push down the anxiety that keeps clawing through my stomach and chest like a wild animal. I wish I could relocate my apprehension and uncertainty like those bears George talked about. “I’ll get you some water. You’re probably really dehydrated. Drink a couple of glasses, take a cool shower, and put the gel on. Then take a nap. Maybe not all in that order. I’ll bring in the stuff from the car.”
“Steph,” he groans. “Just leave the stuff. I’ll help you. It doesn’t make me feel any better, thinking about you doing it all.”
“If I can’t handle a few backpacks and a couple of coolers, I have bigger worries than anything so far,” I retort. Really, I just need the physical labor and distance to distract myself.
Adam probably senses that it’s futile to argue with me. It probably hurts too much to work up a protest, so he gives me a pass. I get him a glass of water—running water is a great, great thing—and set it on the coffee table before I retreat back outside into the sweltering sun.
I give myself a few minutes, just standing on the tiny porch overlooking other rows of cabins that people haven’t pulled up to yet or are away from at the moment. It’s quiet. There are only a couple of vehicles here and there, but they’re very far from where we are. And everything here is so still. Fresh. Not like the city at all.
Not busy enough, not rushed enough. I don’t have anything to do other than unpack the car and make sure Adam survives the rest of the trip, which is obviously harder than it sounds. It’s kind of weird not having a thousand things to do, to worry about. Tasks to keep me busy as I rush here and there, working on the house, working for Adam.
I have a whole day free. Nothing planned. Quiet. Still. Adam.
I don’t know which part I find most disconcerting.
CHAPTER 12
Adam
I’m still on the couch when Steph is done with the car, and I’m still not wearing a shirt. I still feel like death’s regurgitated snack. I want to get up and take a shower, but I feel nauseous, achy, and slightly dizzy. The pain thrumming behind my eyes like someone is sticking forks in both eyeballs doesn’t help my spinning stomach. In short, I’m a wreck. I’m pretty sure camping trips aren’t supposed to go like this, and the irony of the situation isn’t lost on me. I set out to prove something to myself and only proved the exact opposite.
“Hey.”
I open my eyes and find Steph standing over me. She has a brown washcloth in her hand, and when she folds it and sets it on my forehead, it’s cold and soothing, even if it’s a little bit like something my mom would do, and I don’t want to think of Steph as my mom. I don’t exactly know how to think of Steph.
She rummages in the bag by the couch and produces a bottle of green slime. It looks like how hair gel looked back in the nineties. Actually, it still probably looks like that.
“Since you’re not going to take a shower, and you’re not looking any better, let me put this on for you.”
I want to protest. I want to tell her I have no idea what the feel of her hands gliding over my skin will do to me. I want to apologize in advance for any inappropriate bodily response. I want to apologize for all of this, for her having to take care of my ass like this. I want to—oh.
Her hand hits my chest, and the cool gel spreads out over my skin that feels like it’s a thousand degrees. It’s refreshing. It’s cooling. And there’s pure relief. Steph’s hands are so small and gentle. I’ve never used aloe vera gel before, but then again, I’ve never burned like this. Usually, I take more care. Usually, I don’t even have the opportunity because the beach isn’t my ideal holiday location when I actually take one.
Steph spreads the gel over my chest, and her finger brushes my nipple. I stiffen, and my dick rises to the occasion. Literally, of course. She keeps working the gel into my skin, spreading it so gently that it barely hurts at all. No one has ever taken this much care with me, except possibly my mom, and again, we’re not going there.
I don’t really know where we’re going, so I make the terrible decision to blurt out something. “Do you think last night was a fluke?” I wanted to say something about it, to start the conversation, but not like that.
Steph is kneeling at the side of the couch, and I can literally hear her knees creak when she shifts position. She uncaps the gel and squirts a large amount onto her hand again. She stays silent. I can’t look at her, but I imagine she’s biting down on something, her cheek, tongue, or lip, to make sure she doesn’t snap something at me. But that’s not Steph. No, she would never snap at anyone. She’s too calm, too rational, too collected, and too held together. She seems to know what everyone needs before they even ask.
“Define fluke,” she says softly a minute later. Her hands start smearing the cool gel over my stomach and up.
I can feel her tremble as she brushes her fingers over my abs. I don’t know if it’s from being pissed or just because she’s trying to be overly careful, and she’s crouched in an unnatural position at an unnatural angle, and it’s straining her arm muscles. Her hands work over my lower abs, and my dick gets excited since she’s only a few inches away. I can only hope she doesn’t look there because I’m sure it’s noticeable. At least my cheeks can’t get any redder or hotter. They’re already pink from the sun.
“Mistake as in we were both a little drunk.”
“I wasn’t that drunk.”
“A little, I said.”
“A little, but not enough to not know what I was doing. Not enough to make a mistake like that. Try again.”
Try again? What the heck does she mean by that? “Do you think we should be careful that it doesn’t happen again?”