He was absolutely right.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Carson
By the time we crawled into the tent that night, I’d convinced myself foolishly that it would be fine.
Manageable. That the rules we’d laid out with such strained, nervous formality would hold up under wilderness conditions.
Separate sleeping bags.
No touching.
Professional distance.
Mature restraint.
All very reasonable in theory.
In practice?
The tent was too small.
Her sleeping bag was too close.
Her presence was everywhere.
Sienna lay on her back, staring upward, hair fanned over her pillow, her breath visible in faint puffs where the cold crept in. Ilay stiff as a board on my side, my back toward her, because if I turned around and saw her face, soft, flushed from the chilly air, lips parted slightly in sleep, I wasn’t sure I trusted myself not to ruin every boundary we’d ever drawn.
“Night,” she mumbled, trying for casual.
“Night,” I replied, trying for something similar.
Except the word came out lower, rougher, betraying far too much.
We fell into a tentative silence, broken only by the muted rustle of nylon and the light wind against the fly outside. I focused on my breathing…slow, even, disciplined. I listened to the rhythm of the trees swaying outside. I thought about everything and anything except the memory of her lips earlier today or the way her body had felt when she brushed against me in the tent.
This was fine.
I was fine.
Totally capable of being a professional adult guide in a shared tent.
Until ten minutes later, when she rolled over in her bag and whispered, “Why is this sleeping bag colder than the ice age?”
I exhaled a laugh before I could stop it. “Probably because you’re refusing to use the one that is rated for colder weather.”
She groaned. “It makes that crunchy sound. I hate crunchy sounds.”
“It keeps you warm.”
“I prefer silence.”
“And hypothermia?”
“Maybe.”
I shook my head. “Go to sleep, Sienna.”
