Page 54 of Camping with the Boss

“Can I start?” Jet asks, leaning forward in his chair.

“Yes,” Wade says, darting a look at his brother. “Go ahead.”

Ander’s smile grows bigger.

“Growing up, my family went camping every summer. But no cabins. We slept in tents, and Mom cooked over a fire. There was something magical about sleeping under the stars and eating eggs and bacon right from the fire.” He smiles at the memory, and it reminds me of River. “That was always my favorite part.”

Emotion clogs my throat for a second. It could also be from the smoke. “My mom would cook whatever fish we caught that day. Mostly catfish. River and I would compete to see who could get the most.”

“Who won?” Lydia asked.

“My dad. He was terrible at ghost stories but an exceptional fisherman. Between the two of us, River usually caught the most.”

“You let him win.” It doesn’t sound like a question. Wade is studying me like he knows me.

But he doesn’t. And I don’t know him. Not really. I need to remember that. It’s only been two days.

“We went camping all the time. And rafting. And boating. My parents loved the outdoors. Always looking for the next adventure.” My laugh turns into a choked-off sob as I push back the memories of their last adventure. The one they didn’t survive. My throat is tight, and I blink back the tears as I stare at the fire. If I look at Wade, I might fall apart.

It’s been ten years.

He squeezes my wrist. “Go ahead, Ander. I know you’re dy— You can’t wait to embarrass me. Let’s get it over with.”

Everyone’s focus shifts to Ander, and the tightness in my chest loosens. I take a deep breath, inhaling the scents of Wade’s sweat and body wash and the smoke from the fire.

“We usually camped once or twice a year starting when I was young—probably three or so—and ending—” He cuts off and swallows. Everyone knows the rest of that sentence. Ending when a distracted driver killed both his parents. Jared squeezes his arm and Ander gives him a grateful smile. Then he clears his throat. “Sorry. It’s been a while, but it still takes me by surprise sometimes. I was seven and Wade was nine on the last trip we were on, and we were all sleeping—in tents—and this scream wakes me up. We all rush to Wade’s tent. It was—” He laughs and wipes his eyes. “I can’t?—”

“It was a squirrel,” Wade says. “A killer squirrel.”

Ander struggles to catch his breath. “You were—it was only—” He holds his hands about six inches apart, one over the other.

“I woke up, and that squirrel was staring at me,” Wade says, then mumbles the rest, “with murder in his eyes.”

Everyone’s laughing now. I grin at him and pat his arm. “It’s okay, Wade. We believe you.” I can’t keep the warmth from my eyes. He did this. Turned the focus on himself for me. I’m not sure how much I can trust him, and I’m positive I’m going to end up with a broken heart, but for now, in this moment, I—care about Wade more than I should.

The stories continue, but it’s hard to focus. I can’t tell Wade how I feel. But I can show him.

Afterward, we’re in our room in the cabin, and Wade, freshly showered, slips under the covers and pulls me into his arms.

“Thank you.”

He brushes my hair back and smiles. The affection in his eyes steals my breath. “I’m sorry about your parents, Can.”

“Thank you. Again.” I roll my eyes, and he laughs. “I—same. You were so young when you lost your parents.”

He shakes his head, but not like I was wrong. More like he didn’t want to discuss it. I expect him to change the subject. “It was hard,” he says, his gaze dropping. “I wasn’t able to deal with it fully as a kid. I was in shock, and after Uncle Frank died, my shock turned to fury.” He shrugs a shoulder. “I’ve been angry ever since.”

His face feels warm against my palm as I cup his cheek. If there was a way I could take away his pain, I would in a heartbeat. I brush my lips over his. Just once.

His breathing changes and his throat clicks as he swallows. “Until now. It’s been so long since I felt happy or cared for. Thank you.” He kisses me, but instead of a pause or a quick beat, this kiss is more. It’s the start of something. “I need you, Can.”

I whimper at his words and the way his mouth feels on my skin. He kisses me again, and I open myself to him. My mouth so he can deepen the kiss, our tongues sliding together. My arms tohold him. My legs to give him access to whatever he wants. My heart—even knowing it could destroy me.

“Tonight is about you, Can. I want to take care of you. Just tell me how. I can blindfold you, use restraints, control you completely so you’re dependent on me to feel good.” Each word stokes the fire burning through my body. “Or I can worship every inch of your body. Tell me what you need.”

Love me.

But I can’t say those words. As much as I love the thought of being stripped bare, punished, and left with no choice in anything, tonight, I want something that will hurt much more. His gentle touch. His tenderness.

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