The Stopover (The Miles High Club 1)

My back is to Jay, and I bite my lip to try to stop myself from laughing. He had a complete meltdown when we got into bed over the sound of the animals in the forest keeping him awake—in fact, he’s had about ten meltdowns.

This will be the icing on the cake.

The rain really begins to come down, and thunder begins to crack repeatedly.

“Well, this is just fucking great,” he huffs.

I smile and roll over to face him. “It’s fine. Tents are waterproof. Just go back to sleep.”

The tent continually lights up an iridescent white as lightning flashes through the sky.

He sits up and feels around the tent in the dark. He’s foraging for a long time on his hands and knees.

“What are you doing?”

“Looking for a fucking light!”

I laugh out loud.

“How do you find this funny? Not one fucking thing about this is funny, Emily.”

He finally finds the light and puts it on his head and switches it on and looks at me.

His hair is all mussed and sticking up everywhere, and his eyes are wide and crazy.

Unable to help it, I get an uncontrollable fit of the giggles.

“What?”

“If you could . . .” I have to stop talking because I’m laughing so much. “If you could just see yourself.”

He smirks, and then a crash of lightning hits so close it sounds like it hit a tree right next to us.

“We’re going to fucking die tonight,” he stammers in a panic.

The rain hammers down, and I unzip the tent. We both peer out into the apocalyptic storm.

It’s really pouring down, and I zip the tent back up. “It’s fine. The tent is waterproof, and we’ll just have to try to sleep through it.”

“Have you lost your fucking mind?” he snaps. “Who could sleep through this?”

“Me—I could.” I lie back down and pull the sleeping bag blanket over me.

I smile when I remember Jameson’s earlier meltdown that he couldn’t touch me in my sleeping bag. In an hour-long operation, he unzipped both of our bags and put one underneath us and one over the top of us so that we could cuddle while we sleep. He’s super cute.

The tent begins to sway side to side as the windstorm picks up.

“Holy fucking . . . here we go,” he mutters as he looks at the ceiling of the tent.

One end of the tent lifts up in the wind, and he pounces over and holds the tent to the ground.

I burst out laughing again.

“Not helping,” he cries.

I jump up in my fits of giggles and grab his jacket and begin to put it on.

“What are you doing?” He frowns.