Page 15 of Campfires & Canines
"So, do you ever go swimming in the creek? Intentionally, I mean."
"Sure,” he says. “Not in that spot."
"Oh? It seemsso perfect for swimming."
He smiles at my sarcasm. The second one is as stunning as the first. If he keeps doing that, I might get addicted.
"There's a nice wide area up the creek a bit. It's deep enough for swimming."
"Sounds lovely," I murmur.
"Do you want to go? It'll be too cold soon, but it should be okay for another week or two." He looks hopeful.
My heart leaps. "I don't know, the creek was kind of freezing," I tease, although it's a valid concern.
"Are you cold?" He steps closer, the picture of concern.
I can't help but grin. "Of course, I am. I'm in wet clothes. But what are you going to do about it? Give me your pants?”
Slate freezes for a second, his lips slightly parted. His bronze cheeks color pink.
Good job, Hazel. Nothing like a weirdly sexual joke to make you a new friend.
Turning on my heel, I let out an awkward laugh. "There's the cabin."
He nods, jerking into motion. We don’t speak again until we’ve reached the cabin’s porch steps. He hands me my sweatshirt. "See you later." Ducking his head, he turns away from me. He can’t get out of here fast enough.
"Bye."
I slip off my shoes on the front steps and drape my sweatshirt over the railing. I'd rather not drip all over my uncle's house. I could take off my jeans too, but knowing my luck, Slate would reappear right at that moment.
After a warm shower and a fresh set of clothes, I curl up in the window seat with my book again. But instead of reading, I mull over my disastrous hike.
I run the pad of my finger across the pages of the closed book. What was he really doing out there? I realize with a jolt, he was barefoot! I was distracted by the clinging sweatpants; his lack of shoes hadn't registered at the time. Didn't it hurt? Maybe he ran around barefoot constantly growing up and it's normal for him.
I'm still irritated that he kept treating me like an incapable child. But I admit, it's nice to be fussed over. Maybe I could be annoyed with him and still enjoy his attention. Still admire him.
But those green eyes and that chest swirling with tattoos... The walk back gave me plenty of time to memorize the art inked into the hard planes of his skin. They are spectacular. My toes curl.
That man is a walking thirst trap. I lean my head against the cool window, feeling a bit heated. Speaking of thirst, I really should hydrate better after all that hiking… and being manhandled. With a snicker, I head to the kitchen for a drink and maybe a snack.
4. Campfire Confessions
Slate
Iduck into the training room. Heath is leaning against the wall, his arms crossed. He is glowering at Fisher and Hawthorne who are busy debating something. They quiet as I approach and lower their eyes.
Their respect still makes me cringe. Hawthorne held my position before me, even though it was temporary and it didn't suit him. And Fisher has been our trainer for two decades. Both men are like fathers to me.
"Sir," I address Heath, looking at the ground until he addresses me.
"Yes, Slate?"
"I have an update for you. Hazel hiked down to the creek on her own." I grip my hands together behind my back, holding my stress there.
Heath frowns at me. "Did she?"
I control my expression tightly. No hint of worry, and absolutely no sign of possessiveness over Hazel. I keep my voice even.
