The Stopover (The Miles High Club 1)

“Where?” He frowns.

“Just park anywhere.”

“What do you mean?” His eyes come over to me.

“We just set up where we want.”

“What, like”—he screws up his face as he looks around—“on the dirt?”

I laugh. “Were you expecting oak parquetry floor?”

He rolls his eyes and parks the truck, and I get out and walk up and down the water’s edge. “What are you doing?” he asks.

“Looking for a good spot to set up. It needs to be high and flat.”

“Why high?” he asks as he starts to look around.

“In case it rains.”

His eyes come to me in horror. “Don’t even say that.”

“Quick, we have to get a move on.”

“Why?”

“It’s getting dark. We’re running out of sunlight.”

He looks up at the sky. “Do we have lighting?”

“We have a flashlight and two of those little headlight things that strap on our heads.”

“Good grief,” he snaps as he begins to throw the things out of the back with urgency. “I’m not wearing a fucking strap-on headlight in this stupid man-versus-wild experiment. It’s bad enough when I can see.”

I laugh as I grab the tent in its bag and begin to unpack it. I hand him the broom. “Sweep the dirt.”

He looks at me, completely lost. “What?”

“Sweep the dirt—clear a patch for us. No sticks or anything can be under the tent.”

“Sweep the dirt,” he repeats.

“Yes, Jameson. Hurry up, or you will be doing it in the dark.”

“Jesus Christ . . . now I’ve heard it all,” he mutters as he begins to sweep a patch of dirt to clear it. “Who sweeps fucking dirt?”

“Campers.” I smirk as I open the instructions, and then my face falls. The instructions look like they’re to build a nuclear reactor. Oh jeez, Molly said it was easy to put up.

Okay . . . whatever. It will be fine. I inwardly begin to panic. We are not going home.

I spread the tent out, and I hear a slap. “Ow.”

I keep concentrating as I get the poles out of their bag.

I hear another slap. “What the hell?” he cries.

“What?”

“These bugs are from Jurassic Park.” He swings his arms around to get them off him. “No bugs are this big.”