So far, her plan was working like a charm. And now it was time for phase two.
“I need to change,” she announced.
“I can take you.” Charlie spoke so fast it was a miracle he hadn’t bitten his tongue. “Do you want a piggyback ride?”
“Don’t be weird, son.” Mr. Pike indicated the door with his chin. “Get the golf cart.”
Jean watched from her comfortable position in the passenger seat as Charlie hoisted another piece of luggage into the back ofthe golf cart. He was red-faced and sweating, darting to the pile of monogrammed suitcases as if they were escaping a burning building with all their worldly possessions.
“I’ll have to come back for the rest,” he said, wiping his forehead.
“Hmph,” Jean sniffed, strongly implying she’d had better service at the last house party she crashed. It was a little concerning that she wouldn’t be staying in the main house with the VIPs, but there were bound to be setbacks in any scheme of this magnitude. Like those heist movies where one of the key players gets sick at the last minute and the rest of the team has to improvise with superglue and a department store mannequin.
Charlie dropped into the seat beside her, working his long legs under the steering wheel with difficulty. “Here we go.”
As they rolled over the grass, the only sound was the whine of the electric motor. Jean tipped her head back to look up at the blobby red rock formations studding the hilltops. The shapes reminded her of the drip castles her best friend taught her to build with wet sand when Jean first moved to Oahu for college.
Those sunny beaches seemed like a distant memory now. There was a distinct snap in the air as the shadows deepened around them, like cool fingers reaching for Jean’s bare skin. The second she was alone, she was ditching this “which way to the rave?” ensemble for something warmer.
Charlie had never told her it was beautiful here. She added that to her running tally of things he’d failed to disclose. It was easier to think about his many failures than his presence beside her.
Now that it was just the two of them, it would be so easy for him to turn to her and say, “Jean,” popping the soap bubble of her hoax. Instead he drove as if it required his full concentration, only sneaking occasional glances at the side of her face.
The cart moved slowly around a series of outbuildings. Jean probably could have crawled faster, but then she wasn’t haulinga thousand pounds of baggage. Or at least, not the Louis Vuitton variety. They passed a garden, a rushing stream, and a random putting green before reaching an open field dotted with what looked like—
“Are those covered wagons?” Jean forgot to sound blasé. Surely even Eve would be surprised to find this Oregon Trail moment happening. There were a dozen of the wood-and-canvas structures arranged in a loose semicircle, far enough apart that you probably wouldn’t hear your neighbor snoring.
What was next, a bout of dysentery? Maybe Charlie could supply a few snakes, to make the experience more authentic.
“It’s not a real covered wagon. They’re for camping, but fancier,” Charlie said. “There’s a word for it.”
“Vamping?” Jean suggested, determined to be as unhelpful as possible.
His brow furrowed. “I don’t know. But I can tell you it has a real bed.”
The cart stopped moving as he spoke, so the word “bed” landed like a boulder.
Jean knew it wasn’t the rosy glow of the setting sun turning Charlie’s cheeks pink as he stammered, “I mean, they all do. The wagons. Wagon tents. You should be very comfortable at night. All of you. In your individual, ah, beds.”
“As long as you don’t expect me to pee in a bucket.” There. Nothing like bathroom talk to squelch any flicker of romantic nostalgia.
“No.” He rubbed his jaw, and Jean barely gave a thought to how it would feel without the whiskers. By rights, he should have looked worse now that he’d shaved his scruff, but Charlie could have been a matinee idol in an eight-by-ten glossy.
“The old brewhouse is behind that stand of trees. There are real bathrooms. Showers too.” Charlie swallowed, perhaps recalling the last time they’d showered together. It would be a coldday in hell before she scrubbed his back again. Much less his front.
Stumbling from the driver’s seat, he hurried up a short flight of wooden stairs to the canvas door, flicking on the battery-powered lantern hooked to the outside.
“Here we are,” he said, in case she hadn’t figured that out. “Home sweet home.”
Jean regarded him with a stony expression, refusing to make this any easier on him.
“I should carry you.” The idea seemed to hit him like a thunderclap, sending him bounding back down the stairs to her side. “The grass might be wet. Or if you step on the gravel, that could hurt your foot.” He hesitated, arms outstretched. “May I?”
Jean crossed her arms, like it didn’t matter to her one way or the other. Shifting her legs ever so slightly, she made room for him to slip his hands under her thighs.
Her practicallynakedthighs, given the shortness of her shorts, now skin-to-skin with Charlie’s bare-to-the-bicep arms. As he straightened, cradling her to his chest, it felt an awful lot like Jean’s bare ass was pressed against the crook of his elbow. Not a line item on her master plan, but maybe she could work with it, judging by the stutter in his breath as he ducked sideways to get through the doorway.
Inside the wagon, the curved ceiling was too low for him to straighten to his full height, so he hobbled in a slow half circle, looking for a place to set her down. The options were limited to the bed, a luggage rack, and the floor. After another moment’s hesitation, Charlie carefully lowered Jean onto the snowy white duvet.
