“What’s your go-to song?” Charlie asks.
Angela is the first to volunteer. “Mine is ‘Juicy.’”
Of course it is.
“What’s yours?” I ask Charlie.
“I don’t sing in the shower.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not much of a singer.”
“Not even when you’re alone in your douchemobile?”
“I tend to play classical music.”
“That’s the beauty of the cabin shower,” Stefan says. “Everybody sounds like Adele.”
“You should try it next time,” Angela tells him. “Maybe you’ll surprise yourself with how good you sound.”
Leave it to Angela to know how to appeal to a man’s ego.
“Maybe.” Charlie offers a dimpled smile that casts a spell on my uterus. Where in his perfect bone structure has he been hiding those dimples? I quickly dismiss the thought. Charles Thorpe is the enemy. The Nazgul to my Frodo.
“You all seem to know each other so well. I’d like to hear more camp stories,” the Nazgul says. “The more embarrassing the better.”
“We don’t share embarrassing stories about each other,” I say in my warning tone.
Angela chortles. “Are you serious? That’s all we talk about—that and when Cricket will finally ditch the vibrator and start dating again.”
Heat flames my cheeks. “We definitely don’t talk about that.”
“Sorry, dear. I meant we as in us.” Angela gestures to everyone else.
“I would rather you didn’t speculate about my romantic life.”
“Or lack thereof. Darling, you wasted the best years of your body on a man who didn’t deserve you.”
“I’m only thirty-two,” I object.
“Fine. You have another two years.” She looks me up and down. “Maybe one, depending on your daily squats routine.”
“Am I supposed to have a daily routine that involves squats?”
“Definitely only one year left. You need to spend less time focused on our activities and more time focused on your own.”
“I do sunrise yoga. That’s basically daily squats for the soul.”
“It isn’t your soul that will attract a man.”
“It will if it’s the right one,” I insist.
“I agree with Cricket,” Adam chimes in. “It’s the inside that matters. If they’re only interested in the outside, then they’re not a match.”
Stefan pounds his morning milk like it’s a tankard of ale. “I’d like my outsides to match my insides. Then I’ll worry about finding a love match.”
“What do you mean?” Charlie asks.
