Page 26 of Campfires & Canines
"She's a great friend. Want to go?" He tilts his head, the hair tucked behind his ear coming loose.
I hop up, following him. He's in familiar gray sweats and a soft blue t-shirt. It seems to be his standard uniform. I can't complain about how the muscles in his back ripple under the fabric as he moves. I bite my lip and focus on not falling all over myself.
He leads me north past the garden and school. We pass a cute stone cottage with a red roof that must be Sable and Marigold's. Another two-story cabin stands to our left, but we keep going into the trees.
“Do you have your phone with you?” he asks.
“Yeah, why?”
He gives me a disconcerting look and jerks his head to the left. “There was something I wanted to show you, first.”
Wrinkling my nose, I alter my path to follow him. Did he feel like a little hike before tattooing? My stomach flips, remembering our last hike together.
He picks his way through the woods so quietly, I feel like a lumbering hippopotamus beside him. The trees open up to a rocky outcropping, overlooking the creek. Treetops ripple across the landscape across the water.
“Here,” he whispers, taking my hand. I mimic his cautious steps. At the end of a boulder, he stops, crouching and leaning against the rock, slowly peering over.
I clench and unclench the hand he had been holding before resting it against the warm stone.
Peeking over, I don’t see anything. I raise an eyebrow at Slate. He leans closer and whispers, “See that hole with the grass sticking out? It’s a nest.”
Blinking rapidly, I narrow my gaze at the spot. A nest for what?
A teeny, furry nose pokes out. I freeze mid-inhale, eyes widening. The creature is a reddish-golden brown, with a rounded face like a mouse, but larger like a guinea pig.
My hand has moved to Slate’s arm, and I realize my fingers are digging into his bicep. He doesn’t seem to mind. His eyes are fixed on the little animal, and a smile softens his expression.
“What is it?” I breath.
“A pika.”
“What’s that?”
He glances at me, his eyes crinkling with a barely suppressed smile. “Just take a picture and I’ll tell you about it later.”
A photo! I told him I liked photographing animals, and he brought me to see one. I pull my phone out and frame up the pika. It perches on the rock, looking around like it feels our eyes.
I must shift and make some sort of noise because after a moment, it darts away. I exhale the breath I’d been holding.
Slate stands up and rotates so he’s half sitting on the boulder. Joining him, I pull up my photo reel and show him the snaps I took. They’re pretty cute. The pika is adorable and it looks even better with the warm afternoon light.
“Looks great,” he praises me, tipping his head towards mine to see.
“That was so cool,” I say.
“Ready to go?” he asks. I nod.
Together, we head northwards towards his home. “So what’s a pika?” I ask.
“They’re related to rabbits,” he shares. “They make this high-pitched squeaking noise sometimes that sounds like a lamb. They’re monogamous so they live in pairs, and I often see them running around with flowers in their mouths that they use in their nests.”
“Ok, that’s the cutest thing ever.”
He laughs, pausing. We’ve reached his home.
A sleek black trailer with dark wood trim stands between trees. It's modern and masculine and fits him perfectly.
He holds the door open for me. What a gentleman.I step straight into a black kitchen. Dark-stained wooden countertops stretch beneath a brick backsplash. It's utterly virile andfits the long, narrow space nicely. There’s even a bar top with a pair of swivel stools.
