No Gentle Giant (A Small Town Romance)

It’s so easy, so fun, that I almost forget why we’re here.

Those gold bars hiding in the truck with secrets of their own begging to be unleashed.

We work together to get our food ready for the fire while I put on water for coffee. You can bet I brought a little mini press with me, and by the time afternoon starts to settle toward sunset, we’ve worked up a proper dinner and a proper appetite.

That’s the funny thing about camping.

You spend all your time working just to get comfortable and settled in, and that’s the point.

It’s hard work for the sake of being hard work.

It also clears the mind in the best ways.

I’m content sharing this space with Alaska as we enjoy a dinner of campfire-baked fish and coffee with a little fried flatbread on the side fixed from the supplies he brought.

We’re sort of sitting across the fire from each other, but not quite, when he’s just a little closer to my side.

We watch the sky turn purple and blue.

Starlight ignites over the mountains across the shore.

I’m surprised to see the glimmering flicker of another fire across the way.

Tensing, I squint over the mug I’m holding close to my chest against the deepening night chill, watching the small, energetic figures playing around the flames.

“Is that...Andrea?”

Alaska tilts his head, those fire-filled eyes focusing across the expanse.

God, he’s handsome in the firelight, all sharp planes cast in edges of soft gold.

“Blake’s daughter?”

“...yeah. And I think that’s Clark Patten and a few of their other friends.”

He frowns, drumming his fingers against his mug. “Worried their folks don’t know they’re up here?”

“No, I just...” I pause, shaking my head. It’s just a coincidence, I tell myself. Even with the long drive, this is a popular spot for older kids to knock off to on weekends when the weather’s getting nice. “I just wasn’t expecting company I’d know.”

“Hmm.” Alaska grunts softly. “They look busy messing around if it’s any comfort. Doubt they’ll ask what we’re doing.”

“Probably not,” I agree. “Kids being kids. I think they’re a little too busy making memories of their own to worry about the ones I’ve dredged up.”

“Is that what those bars are? Memories?”

I look up to find Alaska watching me steadily—and there’s a small, scared part of me looking for any hint of censure, of suspicion, of judgment.

Nada.

He’s worried about me, concern filling his bearish brown eyes.

And that’s exactly why I can’t answer him.

So I only smile and turn my gaze back to the flames.

We’re mostly silent until bedtime, but as I shiver in the rising cold breeze off the lake, he shifts closer. Shrugs out of his jacket. Lays it over both of our shoulders like a blanket, binding us together, capturing the fire’s heat when I suddenly don’t need it anymore because he’s all the warmth I need.

I could stay like this all night, my heart fluttery and sweet.

The hard, corded muscle of his arm pressed against mine.

His minty evergreen man scent—yes, that’s what I’m calling his smell—filling my nostrils and the wind occasionally tickling his hair against my cheek.

But then it’s time for bed, all that’s left is just banking the flames, rinsing the dishes in the lake water, and...a moment.

One quietly loud moment as we part ways for our separate tents.

Standing in front of the glowing embers, we look at each other.

There’s something in his eyes, something about the way he watches me, that makes my pulse skip faster and catches my breath in my throat.

Sweet Jesus, I want him so bad.

Every kind of can’t pummels me like a sledgehammer.

I can’t be thinking about him half the night.

I can’t be thinking about anything those deep walnut-brown eyes rile up inside me.

I can’t be thinking about how close his lips were around the fire, how close I came to giving in to a desperate, seething need I didn’t know I still had.

How close I came to kissing Alaska Charter, and letting him use that brushfire mouth anywhere he damn well pleased.

So I only whisper in a squeak, “Good night!”

Then I turn, scrambling into my tent before his booming “’Night, Fliss,” can catch up to me.

I curl up there in my sleeping bag, huddling down for warmth, but also hiding from the world.

I watch his silhouette moving against the wall of my tent before becoming dimmer. There’s the sound of a zipper as he slips into his own tent for the night.

But not so murky and dim that I don’t notice—oh, crap.

He’s stripping.

Yes, I can see the rigid outline of every single part of his sculpted body, the agile twist of his muscles as he shucks down his pants, then slides his body into his sleeping bag with a brute strength that sends my brain spinning into the gutter.

So much for freezing tonight.

Instead, it’s stickier than a hot summer night as a terrible realization sets in.