Page 54 of Camp Bliss
I blink. “You mean the cabins we’re living in? The ones that don’t have working toilets?”
Greta shifts in her seat, now sucking on that bottom lip.
The sight of it grips me tight. I grit my teeth and force myself to focus on her words instead.
“We were always planning to get those connected to the septic system. As soon as we do that, we could rent them out and start generating income,” she says with confidence. “You’d be surprised how hard it is to find something in the glamping category where people can enjoy the outdoors and still come inside to air conditioning and a hot shower every night. Josh and I used to have to drive all the way to Texas for that because the cabins at our state parks are booked months in advance.”
I flinch when she says his name. She doesn’t. Doesn’t stumble over it. But I can tell by the way that light in her eyes dims, it costs her all the same.
I frown. “I mean, that’s a good idea… except for the part where that leaves us homeless.” I chuckle. “Are we supposed to be camping while our guests are glamping?”
Greta’s eyes fly open. “Zach, you’re a genius.”
Four words I never expected to hear her say.
I cough. “Um… I’m not serious. I don’t want to live in a tent, Greta.” I may have quit my job because I was jealous of the camping homeless in Boston, and I love camping, but not as a housing solution.
That spark has returned to her eyes. “What about a camper? I bet we could find a second or third-hand fifth-wheel that we could connect directly to the septic system behind the lodge and hook up to power, and we could live in that until new cabins are back on the agenda.”
“We?Are—Are you serious?!”
“I bet we could get a decent one—like ten or twelve years old for less than ten grand.” She looks serious. She also looks a little manic.
“Greta—”
“Way less than what we’d spend on another cabin.”
I stare at her.
By the look in her eyes, her wheels are turning so fast, she doesn’t even see me anymore.
“Hell, we could probably buy one this week, get the plumbing connected, outfit the two cabins with cute accents and amenities like a minifridge and microwave and coffee pot and start listing them on VRBO and Airbnb and Trip Advisor in like two weeks.”
I swallow hard. Try to ignore my climbing pulse.
“Greta, we’d have to live together.”
Her gaze snaps back to me. Back to now.
“We’ve lived together before,” she says, cautiously. Now her eyes are searching my face, on the lookout for what, I don’t know.
We have lived together before. For one month.
But a two-bedroom house is different from a camper.
Greta gasps. “If it’s the sleeping arrangements that bother you, I’m good with the pull-out.”
Most fifth-wheels come with a queen bed in a legit bedroom and a living area couch that pulls out. I can’t imagine it’s very comfortable, but that’s not the issue here.
“No—No. That’s… It’s just not a lot of… space.”
She blinks at me. And then she’s blushing. “Oh. Right.”
I frown.“Oh. Right.What?” Because I can guarantee she’s not thinking what I’m thinking.
No way.
Is she?
