We walked toward the treeline, pretending we weren’t burning up inside our jackets, pretending we weren’t two professionals pretending to be married while pretending we weren’t falling into something far more complicated.
Tomorrow would be harder, and tonight already felt impossible.
And somehow, impossibly…I couldn’t wait.
As the Butterfields wandered off to admire the overlook and take approximately a thousand honeymoon selfies, I forced myself back inside our tent to organize our shared space. Really, I was preparing for a meltdown.
Carson followed me a moment later, ducking under the flap with that maddeningly calm presence of his.
I spun around so fast I nearly tripped over a sleeping pad. “Okay. We need ground rules.”
He leaned a shoulder casually against the tent pole, which should not have been allowed. No one should look that good inside a nylon triangle.
“Ground rules,” he repeated, voice all steady warmth. “Go on.”
I pointed at the sleeping bags, which lay innocently side by side. Too close. Far, far too close.
“Number one. Separate sleeping bags.”
His brow lifted. “I assumed so.”
“Good,” I said quickly. “Great. Good. I just…wanted to make that clear.”
He nodded slowly. “Crystal clear.”
The problem was that he didn’tsoundconvinced. He sounded like a man humoring a flustered woman who was tripping over her own heartbeat.
“And…and we keep them spaced apart.” I gestured again, flapping my hands like startled wings.
He looked down at the bags, then back at me. “You want measurable distance?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
I blinked. “What?”
“How much space?” he asked, straight-faced. “Six inches? A foot? Do you require a divider? A safety cone?”
Heat flared up my neck. “Carson!”
He bit back a smile but failed spectacularly.
“I’m asking for clarity. These are the ground rules, right?”
“I hate you,” I muttered.
“You don’t,” he said, way too softly.
My knees almost buckled.
I cleared my throat. “Rule number two…no… touching.”
His eyebrow arched. “At all?”
“Yes.”
“What if it’s accidental?”
