One I need to rectify if I want to win this bet and put Triada—and its sexy founder—in the past once and for all.
“We should put one of those find-my-friend apps on our phones,” Miles says abruptly. “In case we get separated.”
I arch a brow. “Worried you’re going to get lost in the woods like Goldilocks?”
“I’m worried one of us might. It happens all the time.” He shrugs. “And it’s not like we’re pros at this whole camp thing.”
“Which is why we’re staying at a campground.” I roll my eyes. “Honestly, when did you turn into such a mother hen?”
He doesn’t reply, just holds out his hand for my phone.
I slide it out of my back pocket and drop it in his open palm. It’s not worth the argument, and the truth is, it’s a good idea. I really should have thought of it sooner so that when I’m travelling alone, my family can locate me in case of an emergency.
Miles installs the app on both our phones, and we set off, gathering fallen twigs and branches. The walk is relaxing, the quiet forest serene. For the next hour, the only sounds are the cheery birdsong in the canopy above and the occasional snap of a twig underfoot.
The steady burn in my calves is a welcome relief, and I’m thinking about the hashtags I’ll use on my Tently posts, when Miles stops suddenly in the middle of the trail.
I crash into him, dropping every stick and branch I’ve collected as he stumbles forward, cussing a blue streak.
An ominous chattering fills the air, followed by a musky, pungent odor.
“Don’t. Move.” Miles’s order is fraught with tension, and I comply immediately.
Please don’t let it be a skunk.
We both stand frozen, but after a beat, curiosity gets the better of me.
I peek around Miles and spot the cause for his concern. It’s the most adorable little porcupine, though he doesn’t exactly look happy to see us.
The chattering continues, and I remain immobile, watching as the little guy waddles away, quills raised.
“At least he didn’t attack,” I whisper, wishing I’d taken a picture. “I’ve heard porcupine quills hurt like a mother.”
“They do,” Miles says, the words issued through gritted teeth.
I glance down to find a half dozen quills protruding from his right ankle.
“Why didn’t you say something?”
“I was trying to avoid getting swatted with his tail.” He looks down, though it’s clear he doesn’t want to. “I suppose it could’ve been a lot worse.”
He’s not wrong, but guilt racks me. If I had better reflexes, this never would have happened.
“We should get you back to camp so I can pull those out.”
He nods, clearly unenthused by the prospect.
We trek back to the campsite, Miles limping the entire way. It’s slow going, and when we finally arrive, he settles into a chair by the firepit as I retrieve my tweezers and first aid kit from the Airstream. On impulse, I grab a bottle of beer before heading back outside.
Miles perks up when he sees the bottle in my hand. “Please tell me the beer is for me.”
“What?” I tease, handing it over. “You don’t want me drinking on the job?”
“Not even a little.”
“Fair enough.” I squat down to look at the quills. Up close, I can see the tiny ridges that dig into the skin and prevent them from falling out on their own. The skin around the quills is red and inflamed, but I’m sure it’s nothing a little antibiotic cream can’t fix. At least, I hope it isn’t. I want to win the bet, but not like this. I bite my lower lip, steeling my resolve. “This may hurt a bit.”
He takes a long pull on his beer. “Just make it fast.”
