Page 134 of The Clover Chapel (Jamison Valley 2)
Nick eventually let me go, hooking his pinky with mine to tug me away from the lake. “Let’s set up camp. Then tomorrow we can take the canoe out on the water.”
“One more second,” I said. The setting sun was beautiful as it bounced off the mirrored water. I took one last moment to enjoy the dimming light before I walked up the gravel path behind Nick.
Our campsite was an open gravel circle surrounded by tall trees. There was a ring of rocks at its center plus an old wooden picnic table off to one side.
“What can I do?” I asked.
“Set up those chairs,” he said, pointing to the collapsible camp chairs. “And then plant your ass in one.”
“You realize that I could help.”
“I’ve got it, Emmy. Sit down and relax. If you want a glass of wine, I put a bottle in the blue cooler. Cups and corkscrew are in the plastic tub.”
“Okay.” I shrugged.
If he wanted to haul all the stuff around while I enjoyed the scenery, fine by me. And by scenery, I meant him. It was no hardship for me to enjoy ogling his behind covered in those damn tan canvas pants. Especially if I got to sit and drink wine this time instead of hiking up a mountain.
The night air cooled quickly once the sun had set and I bundled up in a warm sweater while Nick started a campfire. Then he blew my mind by cooking steak, potatoes and roasted asparagus on the open flames. I had never been camping before and had assumed we’d be eating snack foods and cold sandwiches.
“So what’s our plan for tomorrow?” I asked after dinner.
My belly was full, I had a glass of an amazing malbec in my hand, and Nick was making me a s’more. I loved camping.
“A few miles up the mountain are ice caves. I thought we could hike up there in the morning and come back before lunch. Then we could canoe around the lake,” he said.
“Excellent.”
“Here,” he said, handing me my dessert.
I’d only ever had a s’more at fancy New York restaurants. For a year or so, it had been all the rage. Chefs had made their own graham crackers and served them with ridiculously extravagant chocolate. Then you’d roast a marshmallow over the flame of a candle before assembling the sandwich at your plate. They had cost a fortune.
The s’more Nick had made me, with a dollar milk chocolate bar, boxed graham crackers and a real campfire, was second to none.
For the rest of the evening, we sat in the darkness, side by side, staring at the fire. Every now and again we’d visit but both of us were content to sit and enjoy the peaceful silence while the fire crackled and popped, shooting sparks into the black night sky.
“I’ll never get over how many stars you can see,” I told Nick as I tipped my head to the sky.
“You don’t see that in the city.”
I hummed my agreement and yawned.
“Come on, Emmy. Time for bed.” He led me to our large tent and lit a gas lantern so I could climb into our air mattress.
I drifted off to sleep while Nick went outside to put out the fire and do whatever else you did at night while camping. When he slid into the bed next to me, I turned so he could curl into my back.
“Are you awake?” he whispered into my hair.
“No.”
“Then wake up.” He chuckled.
“No.”
“Please?”
When I rolled, he shifted the hair from my face. “I found something this week. Something I’ve been hoping to find for a long time.”
He brought a hand between our faces. On the tip of his index finger were two rings. My Gatsby hexagon and his platinum band.
