Page 75 of Camp Bliss
In the months I’ve known her, I can’t think of a time when she did something even remotely selfish. When the three of us lived in the house on St. Landry with its ancient and feeble water heater, if she went first, she’d take the fastest possible shower to make sure Josh and I still had hot water.
She’s always asking me what I want for dinner. If I need to use the lodge’s washer and dryer before she does. If she can pick up something for me when she runs to the store.
Did Josh even notice that about her? This is a woman who deserves to be worshiped.
And, fuck me, do I want to worship her.
Would she know how much she means if I peeled off her shorts and panties and spread her wide? Hooked her legs over my shoulders and met her heat with my hungry mouth?
It’s on the heels of this thought that Greta looks up and sees me.
Her eyes widen, and I know it must be at the naked longing on my face. It takes a lot of effort, but I school my features into something resembling sane contentment.
Instead of mad desire.
“You’ve been busy,” I say, in as bland a tone I can manage with my heart hammering in my chest, my neck flushing red, probably along with the rest of me.
Greta shrugs, a nervous smile taking shape on her face.
My God, did I frighten her?
My feet land on the dock’s decking, and I stop several paces from her, worried now.
I’d never hurt you,I want to pledge.I’d sooner pluck out my eyes.
“I-It’s not much,” she stammers, and at the quaver in her voice, I sink to my heels like I would with a skittish deer. A wild thing I’m only worth glimpsing for a moment or two.
And when she frowns at my actions, I reach for the nearest cooler and drag it to me. Inside, I find bottles of beer and our refillable water bottles. As though this is what I was looking for, I pluck a beer from the ice.
“Want one?” I ask, offering it to her.
Greta takes it. “Sure. Thanks.”
A chuckle leaves me. “You’re thanking me for handing you a beer that you packed and dragged all the way out here?”
Her smile goes wry. “Never underestimate the power of politeness.”
And why do I feel this like a blow to the chest?
Because the last thing you want is her politeness.
It’s the truth. Politeness is a pair of gloves we put on for other people. I want her naked hands.
I want her unchecked impulses.
And as much as I admire her selflessness, I want to see Greta’s selfish side.
Whatever she craves, I want to give it to her.
But I give her my politeness instead. With a bit more. “Thank you for setting all of this up. I’ve been looking forward to this all day.”
Understatement of the decade.
Greta gifts me one of her wide open smiles. “Me too.”
My own smile threatens to blaze like a fireworks show. I try to hide it and nod toward the fishing gear. “What are we after today?”
Greta lifts her feet out of the water and scrambles to stand. “Bream, if we’re lucky.”
