Get a Life, Chloe Brown (The Brown Sisters #1)(78)

There was no fighting the smile that crept across her face. She wandered over to him and grabbed a few tent poles of her own. “You’re very thoughtful.”

“Yeah. I thought long and hard about all the ways I want to defile this tent tonight, and I decided to factor that into our plans.” He shot her a grin that only widened when he caught sight of her face. “Aw, Chlo. Am I embarrassing you?”

A blush crept up her throat. She felt like she’d swallowed a star: hot, hot, hot, burning and bright and fundamentally unstable inside. “Does that mean—are you finally going to let me—”

“Screw my brains out?” he offered cheerfully.

She choked on fresh air.

“I am embarrassing you,” he said, clearly pleased. “Wait until you see the air mattress.”

“The what?” she almost shrieked.

He gave her an odd look. “Well, you didn’t think I was going to fuck you on the ground, did you? I’m not a complete animal.”

“You, sir, are a menace. A menace to good and decent society, and to noble, chaste women such as myself—”

She might have been insulted at how hard he laughed if she wasn’t giggling too.

Red put the tent up with disturbing speed, produced both the famous air mattress and a foot pump from his magical duffel bag—“I told you I had more important things than bug spray”—and slipped inside the tent to “arrange” things, whatever that meant. Then he came out and showed her a mysterious tin. Eyes bright in the growing darkness, told her, “Time for the campfire.”

She sat in the dirt outside the tent and was very proud of herself for not thinking about wolf poop or grass snakes or possessive, murderous wood fae. “Actually, Red, I’ve been researching, and campfires are illeg—”

He popped open the weird tin and said, “Chlo?”

“Yes?”

“Shhh.” He put the tin into a little well of dirt he’d created and took a silver Zippo from the pocket of his ever-present leather jacket. “No, I don’t smoke,” he said, just as she opened her mouth. She closed her mouth again. Was she predictable, or did he just know her that well? Possibly a bit of both. She watched in confusion, then something like awe, as he lit whatever was in the tin. He sat back beside her, and they let the flames grow.

“What on earth is that thing?” she asked.

“It’s a portable, reusable, relatively safe and eco-friendly”—he valiantly ignored her snort—“campfire. If we want to put it out, we can just put the lid on again.”

“Seriously? And that works?”

“Sure. It’s science, or whatever. Want to toast some marshmallows?”

It was a juvenile, still probably illegal, and definitely unhygienic activity that belonged to the world of silly American films. “Yes please,” she said.

“Good. I lied about the s’mores thing, though. I don’t know what the fuck s’mores are.”

She snorted. “Neither do I.”

Reaching for his bag, he said, “I’ll open the marshmallows, you go and collect twigs to stick ’em on.”

She stared.

He stared back at her with a stressfully serious expression for two long seconds before he cracked, those catlike eyes creasing at the corners as he threw back his head and laughed. “Oh my God, Chloe. Relax. Look, I bought skewers.”

“Oh.” She pressed a hand to her chest. “I was really reconsidering this entire thing.”

“Camping?”

“Letting you put your tongue in my mouth again.”

“Shut up,” he grinned. “You’d always let me put my tongue in your mouth.”

“Maybe in secret moments of weakness,” she admitted. “Give me that. I want to put my own marshmallows on.”

“You sure? You don’t want the assistance of a marshmallow-skewering expert?”

She rolled her eyes and took the bag of marshmallows from him. “No. But speaking of that expertise—”

“This feels like a great time to make a joke about penetrating soft, sweet things.”

She ignored him. “—why are you so good at camping-type stuff?”

“Ah. Well.” He stared thoughtfully at the skewer in his hand, his hair falling over his face for a moment. The fingers of his free hand began to drum against his thigh and she wondered, with more than a little regret, how she’d managed to turn camping into a topic that made him nervous or unsettled or whatever it meant, precisely, when he got this way.

Biting her lip, she said hurriedly, “You don’t have to—”

“No, it’s okay.” He looked up at her with a smile, but it was a sad sort of smile. “Honestly, Chlo, it’s fine.” And then those drumming fingers stopped, and found hers, and now he was holding her hand instead. “I just got a little bit … ah, you know how I told you about my granddad who died?”

She nodded, feeling those silver rings against her skin.

“He used to take me places like this. All over. Not that often—maybe once or twice a year, when he had time off—but it adds up, yeah? We lived in the city and he was paranoid about air pollution and all that. He had this idea that spending time in nature every so often could … I don’t know, clean you out.” Red chuckled.