His grin widens, and he squints his eyes against the sunlight. Right, because I’m still wearing his hat.
“Oh.” I reach up, pulling it off. “Sorry. Here.”
“Keep it,” he says. “The sun is not down yet.”
“No, it’s yours. My eye is fine now, I promise.”
He takes the cap from me—expression saying he knows I’m full of crap—and puts it on backward.
I want to scream. Can’t he tone the sex-on-legs vibe down? Dial back the fucking country charm?
He walks closer, casual except for the intensity in that shadowed gaze.
“How’s the eye, really?” he asks.
“I’ll survive.”
The bug, yeah, but the prolonged eye contact might end me.
His eyes crinkle at the corners. “Good.”
A beat of silence stretches between us. Not uncomfortable. But not peaceful either. It pulses.
A shriek erupts from the cabin behind me. Then laughter. Then more shrieking.
I sigh. “Time for dinner.”
“I’ll rally my cabin.”
He winks.
Damn him.
The meal is uneventful. We herd the kids into the lodge restaurant—a large, rustic space with exposed beams crossing the ceiling and strings of greenery draped between them. Rows of matching tables and chairs fill the room, every place already set with mugs and napkins.
Ryder and I sit at opposite ends of the table, same as we did in walking formation. We don’t talk, interact, or even make eye contact for the entire dinner.
But I’m aware of him. The low timbre of his voice when he speaks, the firmer tone he uses when the kids get rowdy. The quick laugh that has my grip on the fork tighten with every chuckle. If my stomach keeps flipping like this, I’m going to lose dinner. Even when he’s quiet, he takes up space.
By the time we finish, the sun is lowering behind the hills, painting the sky in shades of purple and pink. Perfect campfire weather.
Ryder goes to get the fire started while I make sure everyone who needs a bathroom break takes one. When we arrive at the pit, smoke is curling into the dusk. Ryder has a healthy blaze going, logs stacked in a neat teepee, flames licking at the darkening sky.
We settle on the makeshift log benches arranged in a circle around the fire, the kids’ faces glowing in the firelight, and I pull out the explorers story I brought.
I open the book to the first page and read, using different voices for each character. The kids lean in, captivated. Even the ones who were bouncing five minutes ago are still now, eyes wide.
By the time I finish reading, the kids are drowsy, leaning against each other, eyes drooping despite their best efforts to stay awake.
“Okay, class, it’s been a long day.” I close the book. “Time for bed.”
Groans of protest rise, but they’re half-hearted. The kids are spent.
Ryder and I move through the cabins, making sure they brush their teeth, get into pajamas, and climb into their beds. It takes forever—one can’t find their toothbrush, another insists they’re not tired, and Rhys stages a valiant last stand by asking a thousand questions ranging from whether bears can swim to why, if dinosaurs had feathers, birds don’t have scales. I tell him we’ll look up the answers tomorrow.
When all my eleven kids are in bed, I leave them time to fall asleep on their own. Ryder is already out of his cabin as if waiting for me by unspoken agreement.
The night has settled in now. Stars prick the sky in dense clusters, brighter than in civilization.
