Page 91 of The Mating Game
I actuallydopull out a knife then, ignoring her follow-upwhittling joke with a roll of my eyes, instead popping two holes in each can’s lid before I tear the wrappers off both.
“This feels like I’m watching a live National Geographic documentary,” she comments.
I grin as I place both cans as close to the fire as the hearth will allow. “It’s something my dad taught me when we would go camping.”
“Did you do that a lot?”
“Every summer when it got warmer,” I tell her. “Until I went off to college, that is.”
“You went to college?”
I frown. “Only for a year. Not even that, really.”
“Why did you leave?”
I can’t bring myself to look at her, shrugging as I keep my attention on the cans near the fire. “Parents died.”
“Oh.” She gives me a look akin to pity. “Right. I’m sorry.”
“No reason to be,” I say quietly. “Where did you go?”
“I got my bachelor’s at UCLA.”
“I bet your parents are proud,” I say.
Her expression turns soft. “They are. My dad worries a lot that I gave up my own dreams to live his, but I really didn’t. I’ve always known I wanted to carry on things in one way or another.”
“That’s really special,” I tell her wistfully. “I imagine your dad thinks so too.”
She smiles shyly. “It’s nothing glamorous, really—or, well, itwasn’tbefore the social media aspect of it all…but still. I like it. I like knowing that something my dad built will go on even if he can’t go on with it, you know?”
Her phrasing tugs at my heartstrings, and I can’t help but think of my own situation. Sure, it’s not something I chose on my own, butthere reallyissomething special about knowing that something my parents built will go on…even when they can’t go on with it, just like she said.
“Your brothers said you were a daddy’s girl,” I tease, trying to change the subject before I get all forlorn.
“Terribly,” she tells me with a laugh. “He used to bring me to jobsites when I was younger. I loved watching him work. He focused more on home renovations back then.” She chuckles softly to herself. “My dad isn’t actually big on the outdoors.”
“That’s surprising somehow,” I state.
“Kind of,” she responds. “Needless to say, this is as close to camping as I’ve ever been.”
She looks down as she says it, which eats at me a little.
“Then I guess I’ll have to give you the full experience.”
I turn my attention to the cans by the fire, grabbing a small towel and folding it lengthwise before wrapping it around one of the cans to bring it over to her. I murmur that she should be careful as I hand it over, leaving and coming back in an instant with a spoon, which I use to open the pull-tab top before relinquishing it to her. I don’t speak while I prepare my own soup, not until I carefully carry it over to the couch to sit down beside her, my shoulder touching hers as I stir the soup without looking at her. The silence in the room is an ever-present reminder of how alone we are, and the heat emanating from her body makes me shift slightly in my seat. Not to mention how her scent fills the space, threatening to suffocate me in a way I would be grateful for.
“So…I get that I don’t know a lot about what you do,” I say. “Or much about any of that stuff, really, but I think it’s easy to tell how much it means to you. I don’t know you as well as your brothers or your parents—hell, I don’t know that much about you atall, if I’m being honest.” I bring my spoon to my lips to blow on it gently, watching from the corner of my eye as she gapes at me with an open mouth. “I think anyone with half a brain can see that you’re passionate about it and that giving up on whatever your life might have been to help your dad is admirable.” I shake my head. “I can’t say that if I had been given the choice, I’d have done the same.”
I hear her small intake of breath, my pulse quickening as her scent blooms deliciously. Something about it makes my skin prickle, but I keep my eyes on the fire as I continue to slowly bring the spoon back and forth between my can and my mouth, mostly because I don’t know what else to say after uttering something so embarrassing. I sense the way she’s still gawking though and give her shoulder a slight nudge.
“Eat your soup before it gets cold.”
She does as I say, her brow wrinkled in thought as she tucks into her food. My mind lingers on what I’ve said, realizing how much truth there is to it. Tess reallyispassionate about her job, and it’s clear she shares that same passion for her family. It makes me feel like a bit of an ass for the way I treated her when she first showed up here.
“How is your ankle?”
She turns her head to catch me looking down at the bit of her toes that has slipped out from under the blanket and pushes her foot out farther to reveal the ankle in question. “I think it’s a little better,” she tells me. “Ibuprofen must be kicking in.”
