“Oh, I see.” He turned them around. Like she could see anything. He knew she couldn’t. “These are mine. You must have picked them up off the registration table. I didn’t take them with me, I just memorized my cabin number.”
“So, where’s my cabin?” She may have shrieked the question, but ten-thirty at night was not the time to realize you didn’t know where your bed was when you turned into an inebriated pumpkin.
And sleeping with the angry, sad man was not an option.
Maybe he could sleep on the floor.
No. That was the tequila talking. Not helpful. She took a deep breath and ground the heel of her hand into her left eyeball. “Think, Grace.”
“You’re Grace?” He chuckled again.
He needed to stop laughing at her. “Hey, buddy, you go to bed at nine o’clock at night, or whatever, so you can just suck it with the superior attitude, okay?”
“Okay, lady. Come on.”
The next thing she knew, she was being propelled out of his cabin and away from the only bed she was sure she had access to tonight. But he didn’t shove her far, just down the porch to a matching screen door. It turned out his cabin was one half of a cabin building, and there was another suite on the other side.
“I think this is your place,” he said gruffly as he flipped on the light. “One of the staff members mentioned that my neighbor’s name was Grace.”
Sure enough, in the middle of the floor was her backpack.
Oh, yes.
She pumped her fist in the air and nearly toppled over, but firm, very sober hands caught her.
Oh, no.
A sinking, sobering realization skittered through her.
Angry, Sad Man was her next-door neighbor. And he thought—correctly—that she was a ditzy drunk.
That was it. Her camp career was over before it even began. What a complete disaster.
Damn.
