The Stopover (The Miles High Club, #1)(92)

We turn off the main road and drive down the track. We both fall silent as we follow the trail. I study the map on my phone. “It says here to go right to the end of this road and then turn right.”

“Okay,” he replies as the truck bounces around on the rough road. His eyes glance over to me. “Are you sure it’s down here?”

I shrug. “That’s what it says here.”

The trees are tall and are blocking out the last of the sun.

“I saw a documentary made here once,” Jameson says as he concentrates on the road.

“What was that?”

“The Blair Witch Project,” he mutters dryly.

I get the giggles as we go farther and farther into the forest. What the hell was I thinking? This is freaking even me out.

We pass a campsite on the left as we go down the hill. There’s a small tent, and two teenage boys are sitting at an open campfire. I watch them as we pass. “They look like they’re having fun.” I smile.

“They’re about to go into the tent and take turns fucking each other,” he mutters. “Only logical explanation as to why they would come out here.”

I smirk. “Will you stop being so pessimistic? It’s three nights, and we get to be alone without anyone around.”

He nods and then frowns as he thinks of something. “Where are the bathrooms?” His eyes flick to me. “We have our own bathroom, right?”

“Well . . .” I pause.

“Well, what?” he snaps. “I am not fucking staying anywhere without a bathroom, Emily.”

“There are bathrooms.” I turn the phone map around as I try to locate where they are from our tent. “Ah yes, here they are. Just a short trek.”

“A trek?” His eyes flick anxiously to me. “Define trek.”

Oh man, it’s a long trek, but I won’t tell him that just yet. He’s likely to turn around. “It’s close—don’t worry,” I lie.

We get to the bottom of the hill, and the road goes into a fork. A lake is straight ahead, and the sunlight is just beginning to fade. I smile in excitement. “Turn right.” He carefully turns right, and we go along a little bit. “Should be just up here.”

“Where?” He frowns.

“Just park anywhere.”

“What do you mean?” His eyes come over to me.

“We just set up where we want.”

“What, like”—he screws up his face as he looks around—“on the dirt?”

I laugh. “Were you expecting oak parquetry floor?”

He rolls his eyes and parks the truck, and I get out and walk up and down the water’s edge. “What are you doing?” he asks.

“Looking for a good spot to set up. It needs to be high and flat.”

“Why high?” he asks as he starts to look around.

“In case it rains.”

His eyes come to me in horror. “Don’t even say that.”

“Quick, we have to get a move on.”

“Why?”

“It’s getting dark. We’re running out of sunlight.”

He looks up at the sky. “Do we have lighting?”

“We have a flashlight and two of those little headlight things that strap on our heads.”

“Good grief,” he snaps as he begins to throw the things out of the back with urgency. “I’m not wearing a fucking strap-on headlight in this stupid man-versus-wild experiment. It’s bad enough when I can see.”

I laugh as I grab the tent in its bag and begin to unpack it. I hand him the broom. “Sweep the dirt.”

He looks at me, completely lost. “What?”

“Sweep the dirt—clear a patch for us. No sticks or anything can be under the tent.”

“Sweep the dirt,” he repeats.

“Yes, Jameson. Hurry up, or you will be doing it in the dark.”

“Jesus Christ . . . now I’ve heard it all,” he mutters as he begins to sweep a patch of dirt to clear it. “Who sweeps fucking dirt?”

“Campers.” I smirk as I open the instructions, and then my face falls. The instructions look like they’re to build a nuclear reactor. Oh jeez, Molly said it was easy to put up.

Okay . . . whatever. It will be fine. I inwardly begin to panic. We are not going home.

I spread the tent out, and I hear a slap. “Ow.”

I keep concentrating as I get the poles out of their bag.

I hear another slap. “What the hell?” he cries.

“What?”

“These bugs are from Jurassic Park.” He swings his arms around to get them off him. “No bugs are this big.”

I go back to my instructions. Okay, so it says here that this pole goes into this . . .

“Ahh,” he cries as he slaps his arm. “I’m getting fucking malaria over here, Emily.”

I roll my eyes. “Stop being a baby.” I put the pole into the correct place. “Can you grab the corner and stretch it out, please?”

He swings his arms around and goes and gets the corner of the tent and stretches it out. The sun is just setting. “Step back a little farther,” I say.

He slaps his legs. “Fuck off,” he whispers as he swings his arms around, trying to swat whatever it is he’s swatting.