Or stroke out.
Not that I blame her. I stayed at some real shitholes back in the day, but even I’ve never stayed at a place like The Love Shack.
My phone buzzes on the vanity, and I grab it, checking my messages.
It’s a group text from my brothers.
Nick:For fuck’s sake, please tell me you didn’t elope to Vegas?
Beck:Dude. If you were getting hitched, the least you could’ve done was invite us.
Nick:I swear to Christ you better not come back married…
Beck:What he means to say is, we wish you a long and happy marriage with [insert your new wife’s name here]
Nick:This isn’t a fucking joke! Where the hell are you?
Beck:Do you need Nick to send a prenup? You know how he feels about dotting his Is and crossing his Ts.
That’s what I get for sending them a picture of the hot tub. I should let them stew a while. The assholes deserve it.
They know I’d never elope. I’ve made it quite clear I’m not interested in marriage. And I sure as hell don’t plan to fall in love.
Nothing good can come from it.
Not for me.
A memory of my mom, bruised and battered, whispering the words “I love you” hovers at the edge of my consciousness, but I shove it aside.
I wring out my boxers and hang them over the side of the tub to dry. Then I slip on a clean pair of athletic shorts and shut the light off.
When I step out of the bathroom, the suite is dark save for a dim light over the bed. Lucy’s already sound asleep, wearing that damn T-shirt.
The one that’s been driving me wild since our first night in the camper.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think she’s doing it on purpose.
I start toward the couch and hesitate.
The bed is enormous. Far bigger than the sleeping bag. Hell, it’s bigger than the damn tent.
There’s plenty of room for two.
Moving slowly, I tiptoe to the bed and pull back the comforter, careful not to disturb Lucy. I slide in and nearly sigh with relief as I sink into the soft mattress, stretching my legs.
The instant my head hits the pillow, Lucy starts, scrambling to a sitting position.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she demands, clutching the blanket to her chest.
“Going to bed.”
“No way.” She shakes her head, and her hair spills over her shoulders in dark waves. “We are not sharing this bed.”
Not this again. “And where exactly do you expect me to sleep?”
“The couch.”
She doesn’t say it, but I’m pretty sure theobviouslyis implied.
