Unlawful Desires (Wildlings #2)

Chapter 1

“Holy shit,” Rami hisses, elbowing me. “Hot guy alert, six o’clock.”

I spin in place and then almost fall over. The hot guy in question is older than us by a few years and kind of skinny, with dark chocolate hair, sexy eyes, and the prettiest tan skin. Like maybe he’s Italian or something.

He’s come in with the group of counselors helping us run the summer camp that we’re sponsoring with Uncle Hopper.

It all started when our dads said we had to start helping people.

When Maya found out that some kids barely have a park to play in, let alone a place to camp, she asked if we could start here.

The Wildings put it to a vote, and her idea won over my far superior idea for an inclusive paintball course, but whatever.

Aunt Parker and Uncle Raf are in charge, but we came up with all the activities. Half of the funding comes from our trust-fund pool.

Pretty proud about that fact, actually.

The other half comes from Uncle Hopper because he just really liked the idea.

Rahm and I watch as Hot Counselor takes an information packet from my dad with a shy smile.

Holy choir of angels, I’m in love.

The dads forced us to sit through a marathon of old movies and TV shows yesterday, the overly sweet kind where everything works out in the end.

When the one British boy finally realized he was falling for the other British boy, little cartoon hearts practically exploded over his head, which totally made the dads gross with nostalgia.

Don’t tell them, but I’m grateful they made us watch. Because I’m pretty sure cartoon hearts are exploding all around me.

“Who is that?” I ask, rubbing my chest. “Oh, and dibs.”

Rami pushes his shoulder into mine. “Greedy.”

“I never call dibs,” I say, shouldering him back. “This is a special occasion.”

“Oh yeah? What’s the special occasion?”

I find the guy again and my mouth goes dry. My chest feels too small, and my brain just…

“Mav?”

“I’m going to marry that man.”

Rami clucks his tongue, shaking his head at me like I’m adorable. “That’s our new camp counselor, Mav. He’s off limits.”

Those words could not have meant less to me. I didn’t agree to any limits.

“Psh. How is that even possible? He just got here.”

“We’re not supposed to hit on the volunteers. The dads say it’s wrong,” he says with a fake pout.

Bastard knows that condescending shit boils my ass.

“Are these the same dads who said we were in charge of making sure these kids have a special summer, and then showed up and took over anyway?”

Rahm’s get-real look is epic. “We were in over our heads.”

“No, we weren’t.”

I mean, kinda, especially after the campfire incident. But still.

“Please.” Rami rolls his eyes. “When Uncle Raf says it’s too much, you know we’re in trouble. And Aunt Parker must’ve agreed with him because she made the call,” he says, as if I don’t know.

Raf was just mad he couldn’t reach one of the canoes for yesterday’s water safety demonstration. Holmes and I had been the ones to set up the canoe racks in the boathouse, and…oops. We’re, like, already a foot taller than those two and hadn’t considered the logistics.

Sucks to be short.

“The Wildlings could’ve handled it,” I protest. “Why teach us how to work hard if you’re not gonna let us work hard? Besides, this was our idea.”

“They were never gonna let teenagers run the camp, Mav.”

“Whatever.” I sneak another look at the man of my dreams, and I swear Earth’s gravity is starting to fail. “You mark my words. He’s gonna be my husband.”

“Sure, Jan,” Rami says, quoting one of the old movies we watched in yesterday’s marathon.

I elbow him. Hard. “Do you at least know his name, or are you completely useless?”

Rami’s shit-eating grin takes up half of his stupid face.

“Tell me.”

“What’ll you give me for it?”

I slap my elbow. “Unbruised ribs. Tell me his fucking name, Rahm.”

Rami rolls his eyes. “His name is Boone.”

Boone.

Such a romantic name.

Sure, I won’t be sixteen for another month, but it’s good to know I’ve nailed down a husband. One less thing to worry about.

Rami is saying something else, but I’m on a mission. I walk in a straight line to the sexiest man I’ve ever met in my entire life and stick out my hand.

“Hey, I’m Rune Bash. But people call me Maverick.”

He takes my hand, his grip sure and warm and perfect.

“Boone Hitchens.” He smiles, and it’s like I’ve never seen a smile before. I feel it in my chest. “Rune is a really beautiful name,” he says, and his soft country accent is music to my ears.

Rune Maverick Hitchens. Well, that has a ring to it.

“So is Boone.” I get a little lost in his eyes, but then I remember some dating advice I once heard somewhere. “Where are you from, Boone?”

Rami snickers as he comes up behind me, and I discreetly angle my foot so he trips as he passes us. Heh.

Boone catches him before he eats dirt. “You okay, man?”

Rami flirts with a grin. “Better now.”

I burn holes through Rami’s forehead, and he angles off toward our cousins, whistling to himself.

Asshole.

I turn back to Boone, expectant. He watches Rami for a second, as if to ensure he’s okay, before turning his attention back to me.

Where it belongs.

“Uh, I’m from a little place called Canyon, up in the Panhandle.”

What?

Oh right. I’d asked him something.

You asked where he’s from, you dip shit.

At the last second, I remember a fact.

“Canyon…That’s where Palo Duro Canyon is, right?”

“Yep. When I was in high school, I spent summers working for one of the horseback riding operations. We’d take tourists around the rim of the canyon at sunrise and sunset.” He shrugs. “Pretty cool for a tiny spot out in the middle of nowhere.”

This is where I should agree with him. Where I should tell him I’ve been there with my family and we’d taken one of those rides. Maybe ask him if he still enjoys horseback riding.

Instead, I bypass my brain-mouth filter entirely. “Oh. So you’re Booney from the boonies.”

Literally just kill me now.

I have some language processing whatever, and little word and name games are how I remember things.

Not sure why “Booney from the boonies” had to go and fall out of my mouth like that though.

Cheese and rice.

Rami, who has somehow sidled up next to us again without me noticing, snorts. “Smooth.”

I dig my elbow into his ribs.

“I’m Rami, by the way.” He thumbs a gesture in my direction. “And you should ask this one why we call him Maverick.”

Fucker.

“They like to say it like it’s a warning.” I put my bony knee behind Rahm’s knee, and he stumbles forward. “But it’s not.”

Boone catches him again, and Rami sticks his tongue out at me. I’m about to say something devastating about the pimple Rami found on his ass last week, but Boone isn’t looking at us anymore.

He’s staring at something over my shoulder, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Pretty sure that’s sweat above his upper lip.

“Whoa. Is that Hopper Hughes, the artist?” he asks, his voice cracking.

I look over my shoulder, not shocked in the slightest that Uncle Hopper has joined the dads’ invasion of our summer camp.

“Oh yeah.” I play it cool and wave him over. “Hop! Come meet our newest camp counselor!”

Hopper jogs over with a huge grin. He hugs Rami and me with all the enthusiasm of a puppy, then turns to Boone. “Hey, I’m Hopper.”

Boone opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

“Booney here knows you’re an artist,” I say, sending my future husband an encouraging smile. “I think he’s a fan.”

Shit. Boone.

Hopper turns to Boone, elated. “You know my art?”

Still wordless, Boone nods.

“Are you an artist?” Hopper asks, making his voice gentle.

Hopper had a super-rough childhood, so he knows how to talk to people who are nervous.

Boone nods, then sputters, “M-Mostly abstract. Nowhere near as good as what you do.”

Hopper waves him off. “We never compare. The only question you ever need to ask about art is if you enjoy it. If you get something from it.”

“I…I do.” Boone clears his throat. “Get something from your art, that is.”

Hopper beams. “Do you want to be an artist? Is that what you’re studying in school?”

Boone gulps. “It’s my minor.”

“Oh!” Hopper takes Boone’s arm, and I worry that Boone might faint. “What’s your major?”

“Criminal justice. Just like my…Just like my dad.”

Boone looks down and curses under his breath, like maybe he said something wrong.

“It’s really kind of adorable to see him be nervous around Hopper,” Rami whispers out of the side of his mouth. “Of all people.”

“Don’t make fun of my futile husband,” I hiss, then curse my damn fucked-up wiring. “Future.”

Rami snorts into his hand, but then he pats my back. “I’d never get in the way of true love, cousin.”

It’s a good thing too. I don’t wanna have to put his hand in warm water while he’s sleeping.

Boone and Hopper keep talking about art, and after a moment, it’s awkward that I’m just standing there, so I wave goodbye. Boone sends me a grateful smile.

God, he’s so perfect.

“What are you doing?” Holmes asks, hands on his hips. He watches as I pick the prettiest flowers from the field.

“Shh.” I pop up and swing around, making sure no one sees us. “I’m bringing Booney a bouquet.”

Holmes presses his lips together. Genetically, we’re clones, but I have never been this much of an old man.

“What?” I spit out, already annoyed.

“You ask that as if you haven’t already embarrassed yourself enough this week.”

“I haven’t!”

I mean, did I flip my canoe when Boone dove into the lake wearing short shorts and nothing else? Maybe, but I’m pretty sure he didn’t see that.

Holmes shakes his head at me. “Man, do you have it bad.”

“Well, he’s my husband, so…yeah.”

“Oh my God.” Holmes pinches his nose. “He’s like, way, way older than us.”

I stare at my twin. He’s worse than Rami, I swear.

“No, he’s not.”

“He’s in college.”

“So?”

Holmes gestures at the bouquet in my hand. “He’s not going to want a bunch of mangy flowers from a teenager.”

I look down at the flowers I’ve picked and…oh. Some of them are a little mangy.