‘Thanks, Elliot,’ I say softly.
‘No need to thank me,’ he replies. ‘Just an observation that you didn’t ask for.’
He taps his knee with a sigh.
‘Maybe we just need to sleep on this clue,’ Elliot declares. ‘Or we need the others.’
I nod, speech still apparently eluding me.
He starts to stand up, picking up his forgotten cup before reaching a hand out for mine. I drain the rest of my cup’scontents and pass it up to him. He spins back toward the bar, leaving me to wallow in my deeply bewildered thoughts for a minute. And I definitely need longer than a minute.
I take a deep breath and lightly shake my head, as if it might dislodge any feelings in there that I didn’t ask for.
I shoot a glance at Elliot walking to the bar, empty plastic cups swinging easily by his sides. He rests them on the bar with a polite nod at the man who’s pouring a pint.
An urgent, horrible realisation squirms inside me, refusing to be ignored now.
My eyes soften as I watch him turn to walk back to me with his hands in his pockets, peering to his right at the sprawling view of Firecrest Festival.
I don’t bother looking away. Denying looking at him is like denying a truth I don’t want to admit. I can’t even tear my eyes off him as he saunters slowly over, his face strong and unreadable all at once. The sight of it makes my insides crumple and my heart race and it’s so obvious all of a sudden – so,sopainfully obvious – how much I like him. Enough for it to be a problem. More than I ever wanted to like someone again.
Which isexactlywhat I wanted to prevent.
All I can do now is brace myself for the inevitable gut-wrenching pain that comes next. Liking someone this much can never end well. And I still have another twenty-four hours tethered to him.
Elliot takes the last step toward me, his blue eyes glowing in the darkness. He’s almost painful to look at.
‘So, um, what do you want to do? Are we sleeping at my tent again or yours?’ he asks with an edge of nervousness. ‘Or call it quits?’ he adds with what sounds like hope.
I pull my backpack on and stand up to face him. Just because I’ve found myself pining over him, that doesn’t mean I’m evenclose to giving in. ‘While I love the enormo-tent, I really need a night where I have my stuff around me.’
He nods. ‘That’s fair. At least yours is closer too, so makes sense.’
I cringe, deciding it would be better to confess before we get there. ‘I have to warn you… it’s a lot smaller than yours.’
One of his eyebrows shoots up. ‘How small are we talking?’
‘It’s… small. It’s a two-man. A small two-man.’
He looks concerned.
‘I mean, we’ll fit.’ I wince. ‘But it’s definitely no enormo-tent. More of apetite-tent.’
For inexplicable reasons, I pronounce this with a rather surreal French accent. I suppose my recent revelation might explain this: generally, when I realise I really like somebody, all reason seems to escape me and I – more often than not – begin to spout nothing but complete fucking nonsense. Luckily, he doesn’t seem to bat an eyelid.
He pushes his hands into his pockets, considering this for a second.
Damn, I really hoped that he might finally throw in the towel and give me some much-needed peace.
‘Are you okay with it?’ he asks, his brows wrinkled.
Good question. Am I??
‘Sure,’ I squeak.
He’s hesitant, but eventually nods in agreement.
‘I’m sure it’ll be fine.’
