The Stopover (The Miles High Club, #1)(95)

The rain really begins to come down, and thunder begins to crack repeatedly.

“Well, this is just fucking great,” he huffs.

I smile and roll over to face him. “It’s fine. Tents are waterproof. Just go back to sleep.”

The tent continually lights up an iridescent white as lightning flashes through the sky.

He sits up and feels around the tent in the dark. He’s foraging for a long time on his hands and knees.

“What are you doing?”

“Looking for a fucking light!”

I laugh out loud.

“How do you find this funny? Not one fucking thing about this is funny, Emily.”

He finally finds the light and puts it on his head and switches it on and looks at me.

His hair is all mussed and sticking up everywhere, and his eyes are wide and crazy.

Unable to help it, I get an uncontrollable fit of the giggles.

“What?”

“If you could . . .” I have to stop talking because I’m laughing so much. “If you could just see yourself.”

He smirks, and then a crash of lightning hits so close it sounds like it hit a tree right next to us.

“We’re going to fucking die tonight,” he stammers in a panic.

The rain hammers down, and I unzip the tent. We both peer out into the apocalyptic storm.

It’s really pouring down, and I zip the tent back up. “It’s fine. The tent is waterproof, and we’ll just have to try to sleep through it.”

“Have you lost your fucking mind?” he snaps. “Who could sleep through this?”

“Me—I could.” I lie back down and pull the sleeping bag blanket over me.

I smile when I remember Jameson’s earlier meltdown that he couldn’t touch me in my sleeping bag. In an hour-long operation, he unzipped both of our bags and put one underneath us and one over the top of us so that we could cuddle while we sleep. He’s super cute.

The tent begins to sway side to side as the windstorm picks up.

“Holy fucking . . . here we go,” he mutters as he looks at the ceiling of the tent.

One end of the tent lifts up in the wind, and he pounces over and holds the tent to the ground.

I burst out laughing again.

“Not helping,” he cries.

I jump up in my fits of giggles and grab his jacket and begin to put it on.

“What are you doing?” He frowns.

“I have to hammer the tent pegs back in.” I put my headlamp on my head.

His mouth drops open in horror. “What?”

“It’s the only way the tent will stay up.”

“You’re not going out there. It’s dangerous,” he whispers angrily.

“Somebody has to do it.” I pick up the hammer.

He snatches the hammer from me. “This will fucking do me in.”

I laugh.

“Goodbye, Emily.” He unzips the tent. “It was nice knowing you.” He disappears out into the storm.

“This is why you’re the CEO.” I giggle as I hear the metallic bangs as he hammers the tent pegs back in.

The rain really begins to pour down, and the wind is ferocious. Honestly, what are the chances?

Damn you, weather.

I unzip the tent and peer out into the pouring rain. He’s struggling to stay on his feet from the wind as he bends down and hammers tent pegs into the ground, headlamp still firmly in place. He’s muddy and sopping wet. I get the uncontrollable giggles once more, and unable to help it, I grab my phone and take some photos of him. Surely one day he’ll find this funny.

After ten minutes, he comes back in. He’s panting, wet, and covered in mud from the splashing of the rain. I grab a towel and begin to dry his hair. I peel his shirt off him and slide down his track pants. “Just get dry. It’s going to stop soon,” I say to try to calm him.

The sound of the rain is deafening above us, and he dries himself.

I shuffle through his bag and find him some dry clothes, and the tent begins to sway again as he hops around half-wet, trying to get dressed.

The tent lifts again.

“Get fucked,” he snaps.

Oh my God—this really is horrendous.

We hear a loud rip in the roof, and our eyes widen.

“Oh no . . . the tent,” I whisper. “We can’t damage the tent—it’s Michael’s.”

“I’ll buy the poor prick a camper. This is fucking intolerable,” he splutters.

Rip. The tent rips in half. “Ah,” I scream as our things go flying everywhere in the wind. I scurry to the ground as I try to throw everything into bags.

Some kind of sanity rubber band breaks inside him, and he puts his hands on his hips, tips his head back to the sky, and bursts out laughing.

“This isn’t funny. Get our bags to the truck,” I cry.

He laughs . . . and laughs . . . and laughs.

I scramble to keep our phones dry and run to the truck with our bags.

“Jameson,” I yell. “Do something.”

He turns to me and takes me in his arms in the pouring rain and kisses me. Our headlamps hit together, and I laugh too.

“This is ridiculous,” I whisper.

“Hotel?”

“Please.”

“Hello.” I smile at the receptionist of the tourist center. “Have you got any B and Bs available for two nights, please?”