Page 22 of Maple Kissed by the Mountain Man

I blinked. The corner of his mouth had definitely twitched. “That was a joke, Burke.”

“Hold this.” He thrust the tent into my arms.

“Wait. I want to enjoy the moment. Ford Burke made a joke.”

“Maggie.”

“This is a historic event.”

“We need to set up and get you dry.” The faint humor vanished from his face, replaced by the grim, focused expression he’d worn while crossing the creek earlier.

I wanted to tell him that the point of no return for me not being wet had passed the moment I’d wrapped my legs around him and felt his tongue thrusting into my mouth.

He took the tent and started setting it up. It was smaller than I expected.

Much smaller.

“That sleeps two?” I asked.

He didn’t exactly answer my question. “I usually go out by myself. I didn’t plan on taking a stubborn photographer on an emergency campout.”

He unrolled the frame and began connecting the lightweight aluminum poles with practiced, efficient movements.

I watched for a moment before stepping in. “What can I do?”

“Hold this end.”

We worked quickly, stretching the waterproof material over the frame and driving stakes into the soft earth. The finished tent was narrow with barely enough room for two adults to lie side by side.

Very closely side by side.

Ford ducked inside first, setting the rest of the contents of his pack against the back wall. That included a rolled thermal pad and a sleeping bag.

One sleeping bag.

“And how are you planning to keep both of us warm?”

He looked out at me, his gaze steady. “Body heat.”

My stomach pulled tight, a flutter of pure anticipation striking deep in my core. “Whose body?”

“Get inside, Maggie.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting.”

I crawled through the narrow opening and sat down. The space felt even smaller when Ford followed me inside and zipped the door closed behind us.

His broad shoulders almost brushed both sides of the tent. His knees bumped mine as he moved. There was nowhere to put my legs that didn’t touch him.

Rain drummed hard against the fabric overhead as the rain settled in for the night. The sound filled the cramped space, locking us into our own private world.

Ford clicked on a small battery lantern, hanging it from a loop on the top of the tent. The soft golden light flooded the area, softening the hard angles of his face. Water dripped from his hair and his shirt clung to every muscle in his chest.

“You need to take off those wet clothes,” he said.

I looked down at myself. His jacket had saved my sweater, but my jeans were soaked through from the hips down.