Page 97 of Camp Bliss
I’ve truly fucked up.
I need to apologize.
I need to reassure Zach that this willneverhappen again.
He said we didn’t need to make it weird, but that’s what I’ve already done.
I’m his sorry little business partner who got dumped and then threw herself at him.
“Oh my God.”
I feel dirty. I want to take a shower and scrape all of this ick off me. Get dressed in my most professional, presentable camp host attire—which, let’s face it, isn’t very professional—put my hair up in a no-nonsense bun, and apologize to my colleague.
And then meet his parents.
My groan is the sound of someone who’s eaten bad oysters.
It occurs to me then that the guests who’ve booked Camp Bliss South—Zach’s parents—are staying for three nights.
Three. Nights.
How awkward will things be between us at brunch and Happy Hour? How much more awkward will things be because we’ll be waiting onhis parents?
Not to mention our two other guests who will arrive in less than an hour.
“Shit.”
I snap out of my fog and hit the trail, heading for the fifth wheel.
* * *
An hour and a half later,I’m showered, dressed in jeans and a cream blouse with a French tuck, and my beige wedge ankle boots. Thanks to a bit of dry shampoo and two hair ties, my curls are tamed—almost, anyway—in what I’ve dubbed my One Minute Bun. So, at least I look put together as I stand in the lodge kitchen, prepping for our five p.m. Happy Hour.
I keep glancing out the windows, waiting for Zach and his parents to arrive. It’ll just be the two of them for drinks and hors d'oeuvres. The two ladies who checked into Camp Bliss North won’t be joining us. They wanted to hike to the bald eagle nest on the south side of the property and then go to dinner at Mulate’s in Breaux Bridge.
So now I’m mixing Native Buzzes, our own take on a Bee’s Knees: gin from Noël’s Family Distillery in Donaldsonville, honey from Bernard’s Apiary in Breaux Bridge, and Ponderosa lemons from a farm in Leesville.
They are delish, if I do say so myself.
I hear footsteps on the porch just as I pour the drinks into two cosmo glasses. It’s a good thing I set the shaker down before I look up because I just might have dropped it.
I’m not the only one who’s cleaned up.
Zach opens the lodge door in dark washed jeans and a slate blue button-down I’ve never seen.
My throat goes dry.
He’s in the middle of swinging the door open when he sees me and freezes. He had to know I’d be here, but he still looks surprised—if not downright gobsmacked—to see me.
Shit, this is going to be awkward.
Flustered, I make my way closer and pull my focus from him to the couple behind him who wait, looking just a little confused, for him to open the door wide enough to allow them through.
And one look at them and I would know that these are Zach’s parents anywhere.
His mom is absolutely beautiful. It’s clear that Zach gets his cheek bones from her. And his hair. Cut a good two inches above her shoulders in a wavy French bob, his mother’s hair is a truly stunning mix of flame red and white. It would be wrong to call her graygray.Because gray is a drab color, and there’s nothing drab about Mrs. Rousseau’s hair.
If you looked up casual elegance on Pinterest, I’m pretty sure this picture of her would pop up. Her burnt umber batwing sweater is definitely cashmere. Her pewter-gray wide-leg trousers are tailored. Her own ankle boots are a dark fawn.
