The Stopover (The Miles High Club 1)

“I have to hammer the tent pegs back in.” I put my headlamp on my head.

His mouth drops open in horror. “What?”

“It’s the only way the tent will stay up.”

“You’re not going out there. It’s dangerous,” he whispers angrily.

“Somebody has to do it.” I pick up the hammer.

He snatches the hammer from me. “This will fucking do me in.”

I laugh.

“Goodbye, Emily.” He unzips the tent. “It was nice knowing you.” He disappears out into the storm.

“This is why you’re the CEO.” I giggle as I hear the metallic bangs as he hammers the tent pegs back in.

The rain really begins to pour down, and the wind is ferocious. Honestly, what are the chances?

Damn you, weather.

I unzip the tent and peer out into the pouring rain. He’s struggling to stay on his feet from the wind as he bends down and hammers tent pegs into the ground, headlamp still firmly in place. He’s muddy and sopping wet. I get the uncontrollable giggles once more, and unable to help it, I grab my phone and take some photos of him. Surely one day he’ll find this funny.

After ten minutes, he comes back in. He’s panting, wet, and covered in mud from the splashing of the rain. I grab a towel and begin to dry his hair. I peel his shirt off him and slide down his track pants. “Just get dry. It’s going to stop soon,” I say to try to calm him.

The sound of the rain is deafening above us, and he dries himself.

I shuffle through his bag and find him some dry clothes, and the tent begins to sway again as he hops around half-wet, trying to get dressed.

The tent lifts again.

“Get fucked,” he snaps.

Oh my God—this really is horrendous.

We hear a loud rip in the roof, and our eyes widen.

“Oh no . . . the tent,” I whisper. “We can’t damage the tent—it’s Michael’s.”

“I’ll buy the poor prick a camper. This is fucking intolerable,” he splutters.

Rip. The tent rips in half. “Ah,” I scream as our things go flying everywhere in the wind. I scurry to the ground as I try to throw everything into bags.

Some kind of sanity rubber band breaks inside him, and he puts his hands on his hips, tips his head back to the sky, and bursts out laughing.

“This isn’t funny. Get our bags to the truck,” I cry.

He laughs . . . and laughs . . . and laughs.

I scramble to keep our phones dry and run to the truck with our bags.

“Jameson,” I yell. “Do something.”

He turns to me and takes me in his arms in the pouring rain and kisses me. Our headlamps hit together, and I laugh too.

“This is ridiculous,” I whisper.

“Hotel?”