Page 101 of Camp Bliss
For my parents’ surprise visit.
Surprise.
I want to snort at the word.
More likesneak-attack.
And along with apologizing, I want to ask questions too. Because…
Because…
Because when my parents’ phone call interrupted us, my head was on fire.
Not to mention my body.
After that kiss, all I could think about was how I’d lost control.
But on the jog back to the lodge, as my head cleared, moments and memories pelted me.
At least, I think they were moments and memories.
And not just my imagination.
I didn’t just imagine that Greta kissed me back.
Right?
But the three minutes we have to mix our cocktails now is not going to be enough time to sort all of this out.
Greta’s already gotten out the gin, honey, and lemon juice. And I’m pretty much just standing here like an imbecile.
“I’m sorry about all of this,” I blurt.
She’s got the bottle of Noël’s in one hand and the shot glass in the other. She stops mid-pour and sets both down.
Her eyes are wide and contrite. “Zach,youhave nothing to apologize for.”
I frown, wanting to argue, but she doesn’t give me a chance.
“I should be the one apologizing. You were right. We don’t need to make anything weird,” she says in a rush.
And even though she’s giving my exact words back to me, they feel like they’ve grown blades.
Because this is what I was afraid of. This is why I bolted.
No matter that it felt like I was born to do it, I know kissing her was a mistake. I just don’t think I could bear to hear thatshethinks it was a mistake.
Telling her that we didn’t need to make things weird, well, that was my own pre-emptive strike. I put that out there so she wouldn’t destroy me by doing it first.
I didn’t want to hear it then when I could still taste her tongue on mine.
And I don’t want to hear it now.
I take the bottle of gin from her and fill the shot glass all the way to the top. “Look, I don’t want you to feel like you have to entertain my parents.” I tip the measured gin into my cocktail glass. “I can play host to them if you—”
She yanks the bottle back from me, a scowl notching her perfect brow. She’s even beautiful when she scowls. “Zach, I like your parents. They’re lovely.” She says it like an insult and then snatches the empty jigger from my fingers before filling it with something close to vengeance. “Iwantto visit with them.”
Greta dumps the contents into her glass and then looks up at me, the scowl gone. In its place is a look I don’t like. She looks wounded.
