Page 190 of Story of My Life
“You’re in my house for eight hours a day. That’s not making time; that’s convenience.”
“If you put on a deck and a grill, I’ll be here even more often.”
I nudged him in the shoulder. “I’m being serious.”
“What’s the fun in that?”
“I’m worried that you’re maneuvering me into dating and I’m going to wake up one day living with you, three kids, and seven pigs.”
“That’s a lot of pigs.” His voice was husky as his hand wound through my hair.
“Campbell Bishop,” I warned.
“Relax, baby. We’re just having a good time,” he promised as he pulled my mouth to his.
My argument was lost somewhere around the time his tongue slid inside, coaxing me to forget everything but the taste and feel of him.
“Get a room, Cammie,” Gage teased.
“Everyone go home,” Cam ordered, still looking deep into my eyes.
41
WHAT ARE OLD FOLKS INTO?
HAZEL
Labor Daydawned with the kind of swelter that made Pennsylvanians believe in hell. Being a new Pennsylvanian, I was a little surprised at the sauna-like conditions. By 9:00 a.m., the temperature was already in the low nineties and climbing. In the five minutes it took me to bike to the lake, I had sweated through my cute denim shorts and Summer Fest T-shirt.
I steered under the 5K’s starting-line banner, waving at the race volunteers, and pedaled into the park. Securing my bike to the newly installed metal rack, I covertly checked the dampness of my shorts and prayed for the miracle of crotchal ventilation.
Like a heat-seeking missile, my eyes skimmed over the community chaos and zeroed in on Cam. He was shirtless, tattoos on display, torso gleaming like he was made of marble as he muscled temporary fencing into place for the petting zoo under a copse of trees. He spotted me and gave me one of those confident-hot-guy, “remember last night when we were naked” grins.
I imagined my heroine arriving and—upon spying her hero in similar half-naked glory—hilariously riding into a hydration station table. It was funnier and slightly more charming than swamp crotch.
As I sauntered toward Cam, I took stock of the activity around me. Last-minute setup of our small but mighty Summer Fest was in full swing, and Story Lake had turned out for the occasion. Gator had a dozen freshly washed kayaks lined up on the beach, ready to be launched. The ice cream and French fry food stand folks were arranging electrical cables and portable fans for maximum breeze. Mr. and Mrs. Hernandez were tweaking their aging pontoon boat’s summer tiki-bar decor for lake tours.
Volunteers were constructing a stage on the pickleball courts for the band and DJ, both of whom were related to Darius. Garland was scampering around taking pictures like a one-man paparazzo. Even Emilie was there, looking disapproving while she loitered on the marina’s dock.
“Hi,” I said breathlessly when I got to Cam.
He looked up from where he was joining two pieces of fence. “Morning, beautiful.”
“You got up early today,” I noted. He’d crawled out of bed at the unholy hour of six, leaving with a kiss on my hair and a dirty promise or two about quality time later. By the time I’d gotten myself vertical, he was gone, leaving a covered bowl of already-cooked oatmeal on the counter with explosion-avoiding reheating instructions.
“Figured I’d get as much of this done before the sun broils us all,” he said, gesturing at the makeshift paddock and hay bales.
“It looks good. How many animals?—”
My question was cut off when he hooked his work-gloved hand in the waistband of my shorts and tugged me in for a fast, hard,hotkiss.
On cue, “Summer Lovin’” blasted from Darius’s little sister’s DJ speakers, and I once again felt like the heroine in my own story. I wouldn’t even have to rewrite anything about this perfect scene.
“Wow,” I managed.
“I can do better later,” he promised. “After some electrolytes and an hourlong shower.”
“Looking forward to it.” I gestured around us. “It’s really coming together, isn’t it?”
