Page 122 of Camp Bliss
We’re in the middle of paving a path from the Camp Bliss South cabin to the lodge. Well, Zach is in the middle of paving a path. I’m in the middle of an inappropriate fantasy involving him and an unlikely landscaping mishap that would necessitate the swift removal of those jeans.
My imagination is failing me on exactly what kind of mishapwouldrequire him to strip down right now, but give me time. I’ve never been called a quitter.
“What are you staring at?”
Zach’s standing in front of me, one muscled arm hugging the sandbag on his shoulder, eyes narrowed in playful suspicion.
Damn. I’m caught.
“Nothing,” I squeak, blindly working the tamper like a butter churn to make myself look busy.
But Zach’s left brow arches.“Mmm hmm.”The sound is skeptical. He rips open the bag of sand and spreads its contents between the rubberized landscape edging we installed yesterday, covering the weed blocker we put down this morning.
I drag my gaze away from this surprisingly erotic task and focus on smoothing out the fresh sand, getting the pathway ready for the flagstone pavers that wait in the back of the truck. I hear Zach toss the empty bag aside, but when the toes of his old hiking boots step into view, I freeze.
I look up to find Zach towering over me. Well into my personal space.
A streak of dirt crosses his jawline on the left side of his face. Sand sticks to his neck and has salted his baby blue T-shirt. And the armpits of that T-shirt? Well, they’re dark with sweat.
And he’s the hottest goddamn man in existence.
This close, I can smell him. He smells like earth and sex.
And the way he’s staring down at me? I don’t think he notices the perspiration across my nose or the dirt patches on my jeans.
I grip the handle of the tamper and swallow hard.
Is it going to happen now?
Because it’s been more than two weeks. And he hasn’t gotten past my bedroom door. He hasn’t even tried.
But the steps leading to my side of the camper have been witness to some serious mugging.
Every night.
And then there’s what happens once—just once—in the middle of the day.
The first time it happened, we were in the midst of doing the dishes in the lodge. One minute, I had a sponge in one hand and a coffee mug in the other, and in the next, my ass was on the countertop, and Zach was wedged between my knees. Cupping my face. Tasting my lips. Pleading with his tongue for mine to come out and play.
The next day, we were filling the feeders on the grounds with deer corn. He cornered me against the trunk of one of our massive live oaks. And thank God that thing is sturdy because I needed to lean against it for a couple of minutes after Zach pulled away.
He might have braced himself against the oak’s trunk while he caught his breath too.
It’s only happened once in one of the cabins. We were changing the sheets together in Camp Bliss North, and when he came at me, my knees might have buckled, and as soon as I sunk down onto the bare mattress, he stopped.
The bastard stopped.
I swear to God. Either he has the self-control of a monk, or he has a clinically morbid case of blue balls that he’s just really good at hiding.
He is driving me crazy.
Especially when he does this.
When he looks at me like he’s looking at me right now. Like he could eat me up with his eyes. Close enough so I can feel his heat. Close enough that his breath tickles my cheek. Close enough that my nipples tighten for him.
And then he backs away.
Like he’s doing right now.
