Page 71 of Cloudy With a Chance of Bad Decisions

George was reserved as he spoke—going on and on about a campaign he was working on for a big-name company that he wasn’t “allowed” to disclose. Mrs. M ate that shit up, obviously. As did I. But for different reasons. It was somewhat surprising to discover that George was creative. I couldn’t tell if he worked in marketing, advertising, or design—but he seemed to know what he was doing.

Which was sexy.

Almost as sexy as his scrunchy, grumpy face.

Or his Type-A personality.

Apparently, he’d had to scramble to finish the project before he left. And when she oohed and ahhed, and Joe offered him a set of little brother heart eyes despite the lack of open expression on his face, I could see why George had been so desperate to come home.

Not once did he mention Brendon, or his creepy-ass texts.

Nor did he complain about his roommate, or the “shittiest year of his life.”

If he hadn’t outright said that to me, I never would have expected thathe’d been having a rough time. He was the perfect older brother. Even Lacey looked impressed—and she was a tough nut to crack. The way his whole family hung on his every word fascinated me. He blossomed, practically glowing with pride at the positive attention.

It was pretty fucking cute.

And I could certainly appreciate how well loved he was.

Mr. Milton didn’t ask any questions, but that was unsurprising. I’d heard him speak maybe five words in the entire time I’d known their family. He too listened intently to what George had to say, even if his interest was silent.

When the sun had gone down and everyone else had retired to their respective sleeping arrangements, I steered George toward our tent. He’d found the bathrooms on his own, and I’d caught him exiting, hair damp from a shower, golden waves soft and free of gel. He was wearing the most distracting shorts in the history of the world but I kept my thoughts to myself. Careful to keep my grip on his shoulders firmer now that it was dark, I breathed him in. His mother had told me that he had a thing about being alone at night. I didn’t want him to feel scared. Especially not when I was around.

I’d already gotten ready myself—catching up with June and her gaggle of bridesmaids in the cabin that was reserved for them. They ate me up. They always did. Asking about my work, the wedding plans, and my hobbies—a never-ending ploy for attention.

June found it funny. She’d smirk at me every time someone would grope one of my biceps. It’d taken far too long to escape their clutches after liberally brushing my teeth and borrowing their shower. I was a bit worried I’d find one of them trying to sneak inside the stall with me, and made a mental note not to use that cabin’s bathrooms again for the duration of my stay.

The groom’s cabin would be less disastrous, but…I wasn’t sure I wanted to try.

Besides…George was using the one delegated for the campers. It was a separate building, all wooden logs on the outside like the others, but fully updated inside. Clean too. Clean enough to pass even a “George inspection.” I had a far better chance of catching a glimpse of him shirtless if I stuck to that one.

Back inside our tent with the flap zipped up, again—after a fair bit of innocent chest bumping on my part—I gave George’s nape another, reassuring squeeze. He fit so good beneath my palm. An odd thought to have, yes, but no less true.

“Try to get some rest,” I urged, directing him to his sleeping bag.

It felt wrong to leave him on the floor when I had a mattress. But when I opened my mouth to offer to share my bed, he glared at me like he knew exactly what I’d been about to say.

“I’m fine,” he grumped. “Don’t baby me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” I wanted to baby him, though. Really fucking bad. Which was confusing. Part of me wanted to just go ahead and do it. But…he hadn’t consented to my earlier plan. And therefore, we were in this odd state of friendly-but-not-quite-what-I-wanted limbo.

There were lines I couldn’t cross without him crossing first.

I’d rather not get lumped in with Brendon. Just thinking about him made me want to pummel something. His face preferably.

Climbing into my sleeping bag, heater turned on low, I twisted to watch George get ready.

His hair was still damp, curling across his forehead in slightly darker than usual blond clumps. He pushed it back in frustration. Bent over his sleeping bag so he could double-check that no creepy-crawlies had climbed in while we’d been helping everyone set up, the locks kept falling into his eyes.

“Everything okay?” I asked, only for him to level me with a glare.

“Stop asking.”

Yikes.

Best leave him alone then. Though, that felt…really impossible.

It was going to be difficult to sleep knowing he was uncomfortable nextto me. Eventually, after fifteen minutes of him fussing, George finally lay down. He pulled the sleeping bag up to his chin, closed his eyes, and feigned sleep—like he could fall unconscious through strength of will.

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