Page 140 of The Unlikely Spare
A muscle jumps in Eoin’s jaw. “I don’t have a pole problem,” he growls.
“Of course not,” I say in a soothing voice. “Your pole is perfectly adequate. Robust, even. It’s just a matter of finding the right angle of approach.”
We both reach for the same pole, and Eoin moves to position himself behind me as we try to thread it through the diagonal sleeve.
“Hold it steady,” Eoin commands.
“I am holding it steady. You’re the one shaking.”
“I’m not shaking. I’m adjusting the angle.” His hands cover mine on the pole, warm and sure. “It needs to go deeper.”
“Story of my life,” I murmur, then bite my lip as his grip tightens.
Oh god, this isn’t me keeping Eoin at bay with my humor.
This isflirting.
“You can’t just say things like that.” His breath is hot against my ear as we both lean in to guide the pole home.
I force myself to focus on the tent fabric in front of us, though every nerve ending seems hyperaware of his chest pressed against my back. “Like what? I’m simply agreeing with your assessment of our insertion depth requirements. Though I do think we need more tension. The manual was very clear about maintaining proper tension throughout.”
“The manual said nothing about tension,” he says through gritted teeth.
“Must have been reading between the lines,” I concede. “But you have to admit, our technique is improving. Look how smoothly that went in once we found our rhythm.”
“Nicholas.” Just my name, but the way he says it—half warning, half plea—sends heat spiraling through me despite our ridiculous circumstances.
I lean into him to feel more of the solid warmth of his chest against my back.
And god, the feeling of his breath turning ragged in my ear has my cock perking up.
Which isn’t what needs to be added to this scenario.
I take a careful step away from him, my heel catching on one of the rogue tent pegs we’ve scattered like landmines.
I try to hide how affected I am by his proximity, bending to check that the corner tent peg is secure in the ground.
“Next time we flee from terrorists, I vote for a nice hotel. With room service. And beds that don’t require engineering degrees.”
“I agree,” Eoin replies.
Twenty minutes later, we’ve achieved something that could generously be called tent-adjacent. It leans dangerously to one side and the door appears to be on the roof, but it’s standing. Mostly.
“Home sweet home,” I say, then add more quietly, “We should probably take turns staying awake in case it collapses and smothers us in our sleep.”
“I’m not planning to sleep much tonight anyway,” he says, then turns around to discover one of our German neighbors has popped up behind him and is now staring at him with wide eyes.
“We’re on our honeymoon,” he says quickly. “My husband thought camping would be romantic.”
Our neighbor frowns at this revelation. “I am concerned about any marriage that starts with such a structural failure.”
He whips out a multi-tool from one of his seventeen cargo pockets and descends on our tent like a surgeon approaching a critical patient. Within thirty seconds, he’s tutting in German as his hands fly over poles and fabric.
“You attach here, not here,” he says, demonstrating clips we hadn’t even noticed existed. “And this pole—ach, who taught you this?—goes diagonal for structure.”
In under three minutes, our abstract art installation has transformed into an actual tent.
It’s not until he retreats with our thanks that I turn to Eoin with a raised eyebrow.
