Two Bar Mitzvahs (No Weddings #3)(11)

“Are you done with the macho He-Man stuff yet? You’re missing it!” she called out from behind me.

“Coming.” I chuckled to myself. Well, no one was coming yet. But soon. And often. I dusted my hands off, heading toward the crackling fire we’d started twenty minutes ago.

The moment I caught sight of her, I stopped. She took my breath away.

I watched her as she sat on a log bench crafted either by the campground hosts or some former guest who’d wanted a better place to park their ass than a nearby rock or boulder. Her hair was bound up in a high ponytail, the ends of which she didn’t quite pull through, leaving spiky pieces poking in every direction.

Two barbeque forks were perched through her arms, the long wooden handles tucked at her sides, their two-foot shafts extended along her forearms and cradled in her upturned hands. Stuck onto the prongs of the one on the left were two hot dogs, well-done to the point of almost burnt. On the right, two pierced marshmallows, held further away from the flames. Her brows were drawn together in concentration. The glow from the fire cast alternating light and shadow over her face.

When I took another step, a twig snapped, and she glanced up. A carefree smile lit up her face, and in that instant, I knew we’d made a wise decision to ditch everything for a couple of days to hang out together.

My gaze dropped to the charred science experiment in progress. “What exactly am I missing?”

“Setting them on fire!” She handed me the double marshmallow fork. The hot dogs also got a reprieve from their barbeque torture when she balanced their spit on the other end of the log bench.

She patted the flat section of wood beside her, and I took a cautious seat, worried about her unadulterated excitement near open flame. She dug her hand into the plastic marshmallow bag and speared two more fluffy white victims onto the end of a fresh fork. “When I was a kid, Granpop roasted marshmallows with me. His health didn’t allow him to take me camping, so we sat in the kitchen and held them over the gas burners on the stove.”

My marshmallows were lightly toasted on both sides, so I held mine back and watched her balance the long fork into the cradle of her arm again. “And you like to set them on fire?”

The multitasking chef extraordinaire grabbed the fork from the other end of the bench and took a large bite off one of the blackened hot dogs, then passed it to me while she chewed. “I did it accidentally the first time. Watched the entire thing as it was engulfed in orange flame. Beautiful, really.”

Tearing a gaze away from the questionable hot dogs to glance at her, I snorted. “Pyro.”

Ignoring my harassment, she smiled, staring into the flames. “You have to time it just right. Blow it out before it loses shape. C’mon, it’s fun. Stick yours in by mine.”

Not opposed to sticking anything in by her, I did as she asked, holding my marshmallows next to hers, which had begun to brown like mine.

She stared at the hot dogs I held, then glanced at me, arching a brow. “They won’t bite back.”

“Yeah, ’cause you killed ’em.”

Her shoulders shook with silent laughter. “Try it.”

Throwing caution to the wind, I took a bite of the burnt-to-a-crisp meat, figuring she cooked for me most nights and hadn’t killed me yet. The initial crunch was alarming but not entirely repulsive. The tough consistency was…interesting.

I chewed. I swallowed. Then I handed the fork back to her. “I’m good.”

Laughing, she nudged my shoulder. “Aw, it couldn’t have been all that bad.”

“You singed the fat right out of it. That’s where the taste is. I’m shocked at you, Maestro. Who are you, and what have you done with Hannah?”

“She’s gone camping!” She grinned.

I bent down, kissing her temple. “Have I told you lately that I love you?”

She leaned into me, humming her approval. “No. And I’ll never tire of hearing it.”

When silence followed, I arched my brows. “Do you love me a little too?”

“Nope.” She shook her head slowly and looked at me. “I love you immensely.”

I grinned, satisfied and happy as f*ck we were alone—with only the two of us on our minds—to discover things like Hannah’s hidden food-pyro tendencies. With a content sigh, I stared at our toasting marshmallows. “So now what? Do we plunge our forks into the flames in a virgin marshmallow sacrifice ritual?”

Her eyes gleamed. “Nope. We edge them closer, holding them into the heat and away from the flames. The key is to get them to their smoke point and then watch them burst into flames.”

I huffed out a laugh, shaking my head. “Woman, you never cease to fascinate me.”

And so, safe in our campsite in the middle of the Pocono Mountains, beside the only person in the world I wanted to be with, we watched our poor innocent marshmallows give up tendrils of smoke in surrender right before they burst into flames.

The orange glow consumed the entire surface for a few seconds before Hannah leaned forward. “Now! Blow it out.”

Thoroughly intrigued, I did as commanded, resulting in two blackened crisps on the ends of my fork. She continued to blow on hers, and I did the same, but my gaze was locked onto those luscious lips as they puckered with a little hole in the center.

My dick twitched at the incredible image, my mind helplessly guttering. Yeah, I imagined sliding serious wood in there before the night was over. (I’m a guy; we go there. Not gonna feel guilty about it.) Her fingertips tapped the crisp surface to test its heat. Nodding, she pulled the burnt blob off the end and popped it into her mouth. She moaned as her eyes rolled back.