“She’s been doing it forever. I personally look over everything, with a small committee. We’ve never had a leak.”
I gave a slow nod, not entirely convinced that the system could be failproof.
“I’ve gotta run!” Max waved goodbye and took off, leaving us to finish breakfast and get dressed for my first day at camp.
So, instead of all the things I should have been doing—like conferring with a divorce attorney or phoning my publicist to figure out next steps—I spent an hour bathing and shaving and, with the help of Lamé, picking out the perfect outfit.
We settled on a fluorescent yellow bikini, layered with a gorgeous, short, brightly-colored floral robe from Lamé’s overstuffed closet.
As we walk out and across the wide field now, past a massive hangar and down a slight hill, the raw silk rubs, soft and coarse against my already sensitized skin, reminding me of Zion’s stubble last night, against my thighs, my breasts. My already aching nipples prick out hard and I swear I hear him calling my name and—
“Well, what do you know,” says Lamé, an edge of glee in their voice. “Looks like you’ve been spotted, honey. Want me to—”
“Twyla.” Okay, so thatwashis voice, not some phantom echo from last night. It’s stern and hard and hits me right in the pelvis.
I suck in a breath and turn. “Yes?”
“Are you kiddin’ me?” His accent’s harsher than usual as he jogs toward us. “How’d you two hook up?
“It was fate,” sings Lamé.
“Yeah?” He’s breathing hard, his body a little sweaty, his eyes a little wild, looking so good it hurts my stomach. “Well, you shouldn’t be here, Twy.”
I go still. “Here?”
“At camp.”
Those words shatter the heaviness between my legs, turning it to anger. “Is that so?”
Beside me, Lamé makes a lowOh, no he didn’tsound under their breath.
“Come on. This isn’t your thing.”
“My thing? And just what is that, in your expert opinion?”
Clearly frustrated, he sighs, running a hand through his already messy hair. “You should be—”
“Should?I should?Oh, no you don’t. You don’t know the first thing about me. And you know why?” He opens his mouth, but I bowl through. “Because you never asked. You don’t get to tell me where I should and shouldn’t be.Fuck this.” I step around him and my robe falls fully open, revealing my body in its full, bikini-clad glory—fat rolls and all. Fuck it. If there’s one place on earth I can feel good about showing off my big, beautiful self, it’s here, dammit.
Zion moves to block me. Behind his leather half-mask, his eyes slide down my body. Below the mask, his mouth drops open, whatever he was about to say apparently forgotten.
At his sides, his hands tighten into fists and that move, more than any of it, gives me the confidence to just stand here. To let him look.
To show him what he’s missing.
“I believe you have my shoe, Zed. I’d like it back. And here at camp, you can call me Twilight,” I tell him, high on this unexpected surge of power at his reaction. And anger that he thinks he knows where the hell I belong. “Like everyone else. Now, excuse me. I’m running late.”
“Late?” He snarls. “Late to what? You meetin’ someone? You playin’?”
Beside me, Lamé snorts.
I ignore it, along with the people slowing to watch the exchange, the game behind Zion coming to a literal stop while the players gawk. Instead, I let this new blend of hard confidence lift my chin and straighten my spine. “I’m heading to a workshop,Zed.” His camp name is a line drawn in the sand between us. Here, we are nothing. “As if that’s any of your business.”
There’s whispering and shuffling and maybe a shocked laugh or two. All of it makes this feel more like an act than reality. The bathing suit’s a costume. I can do this. I can play the uncaring woman who takes no shit. I force a hard smile to my lips, pretend my heart’s not thumping out of control, and step around him, as if I’ve got the slightest idea where I’m going.
“What workshop?” He’s keeping pace on one side. Lamé’s on the other.
“Spanking,” I say, lightly.
