But I know better than to oversell.
“No.”
“No?” I don’t even try to hide my disappointment, because who is this woman and what has she done with Lucy? The Lucy I know would die a slow death before turning down a caramel macchiato. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.” She gives a firm nod, like she’s trying to convince herself. “I’ll brew a pot of coffee when we stop for the night. It’s far more economical, and I have to walk the talk if I want people to trust my advice.”
“Or…we could get Starbucks and just not post it on social media?”
“Absolutely not. Authenticity is the goal, remember?”
Damn. “How could I possibly forget?”
“Now, can we please go get our tent?”
Our tent.
The one we’ll be sleeping in side by side under the stars tonight.
What could possibly go wrong?
Chapter Seventeen
Lucy
“Incredible,” I say, staring at the small green-and-gray tent I assembled in point-five seconds. When the Tently rep said pop-up, she wasn’t kidding. I literally pulled it out of the package and voilà…tent. “Either I’m a natural-born camper or this thing is magic.”
“I suggest you reserve judgment until you’ve put it back in that tiny sleeve,” Miles warns, eyeing the nylon bag in my hand.
“How hard can it be?” I shrug. “I’ll bet the flexible poles fold up just as easily as they unfolded.”
“I’ll take that bet.” He smirks. “Don’t forget to stake it down. Unless, of course, you want it to blow away before you give your glowing endorsement.”
He’s right. Even if it’s only for one night, I need to do this right.
I unpack the tent pegs and ropes and set to work. I don’t have a hammer, so I use my sneaker to pound the little stakes into the ground, which, thankfully, isn’t too hard.
Improv FTW.
“I’ll go forage wood for the fire while you finish with the tent,” Miles offers.
“I’d hardly call it foraging.” I look up, glancing pointedly around the campsite. We’re at the edge of a small forest, and there’s no one around, but it’s still a campground. “I’m done here. Give me a second to put my shoe back on, and I’ll help. I could use a walk to stretch my legs. All this driving and sitting is wearing on me.”
“You sat at a desk for eight hours a day at Triada.”
“Not true.” I slip my sneaker on and lace it up tight before straightening. “I got a lot of steps in running errands and attending meetings all over campus.”
A slow grin spreads over his face, just the hint of a dimple appearing on the left side. “So you’re saying you miss Triada?”
“Of course. Running your errands and taking notes at mind-numbing, soul-sucking meetings that no one ever reads. What’s not to miss?” I tease, nudging him with my elbow. “I miss the exercise. Not the job.”
He laughs, and I curse myself for touching him. I seem to do it a lot lately. I’ve never considered myself a touchy-feely person, but this trip—the intimacy of it and the constant companionship—is bringing out a side of me I never knew existed.
Or it could be the fact that you’re still attracted to him.
Who am I kidding? It’s definitely the fact that I’m still attracted to Miles. Despite my best efforts to squash them, my feelings for him seem to be growing stronger.
It’s becoming a real problem.
