Page 139 of The Unlikely Spare
I can’t look away from him even though his gaze alternates between me and the road ahead.
Then he reaches over and claims my hand, interlocking our fingers.
Every nerve ending in my hand is suddenly alive. For a moment, I let myself have this. Let myself feel the warmth of his palm against mine, the way our hands fit together like they were made for this.
Handholding is such a simple, sweet gesture.
The heat between us has been the kind that leaves scorch marks on walls. But this quiet tenderness? It demolishes me completely.
Then a memory crashes through my mind. Daniel’s fingers interlaced with mine as he promised forever.
“Don’t.” I pull my hand away, the word coming out harsh. “I can’t think when you…” I take a deep breath and blow it out before I continue, “Just don’t.”
Hurt flashes across his face before he schools his expression. His hand returns to the wheel, knuckles white as he grips it.
I hate that I’m hurting him. I hate it so much.
We don’t talk for the rest of the car ride. I stare out the window at the stark volcanic landscape. There are no trees, just endless tussock, the volcanoes rising like monuments to prehistoric violence.
When we reach the campground, it’s perfect for what we want. It’s tucked between stands of native bush, with just enough space for perhaps a dozen tents and a view of Mount Ruapehu. The few other campers are already settled for the evening.
Unfortunately, before we can sleep in a tent, we have to pitch it first.
And the tent kit might as well have been labeledSome Assembly Required by People Who Aren’t Completely Useless.
Which, evidently, excludes both a prince raised with servants to tie his shoes and an undercover detective whose idea of camping involves surveillance vans with working toilets.
“It saysEasy Two-Person Setupright on the bag,” Eoin mutters, holding a pole that’s bent into a shape that defies several laws of physics.
“Yes, well, ‘easy’ is clearly subjective,” I reply, having managed to thread exactly one pole through what I’m hoping is a sleeve and not just a very long pocket. “Perhaps they mean easy for two people who’ve actually seen a tent before in contexts other than garden parties.”
And it turns out our attempt has attracted an audience.
A German couple two sites over is sitting in camping chairs watching while their perfectly assembled tent mocks us with its structural integrity.
I speak conversational German, which means I can pick up most of their conversation.
“Should we offer to help?” the woman stage-whispers to her partner.
“Nein,” he replies, not bothering to lower his voice. “This is better than television.”
Bollocks. We’re supposed to be blending in with our fellow campers, but at this rate, we’ll be trending on social media as the idiots who can’t pitch a tent.
And seeing Eoin standing there with a cute crease on his forehead as he tries to make sense of pole A versus pole B, the dying sunlight catching in his hair, I have the sudden, mortifying urge to smooth that worry line with my thumb.
Which is precisely the kind of thought that needs to be immediately murdered and buried in an unmarked grave.
Right. Deflection protocol activated. I lean over and pluck the instructions from his grip.
“Now, according to diagram B,” I say, “we need to work together to achieve proper erection.” I pause for a second, trying to suppress my smirk before I continue, “It apparently requires synchronized movements and mutual cooperation.”
Eoin’s shoulders tense, and he shoots me a look that’s equal parts exasperation and something else I refuse to examine too closely. “Are you reading from the actual manual or making this up?”
“Would I fabricate camping terminology for my own amusement? I’m wounded by your lack of faith in my commitment to proper tent assembly.”
“Your ability to turn camping equipment into innuendo is disturbing,” Eoin says, though there’s a telltale twitch at the corner of his mouth.
“It’s a skill,” I agree solemnly. “Now, about your pole problem?—”
