Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Sayla
“Bee stings?” I collapse onto my bed and flash Dexter a smirk.
“Bee stings,” he repeats with a shrug.
We’re back at the cabin after a barbecued chicken dinner (yum), followed by a return to the campfire for s’mores (also yum).
And this is the first moment we’ve been fully alone since we dropped our bags off earlier.
We’re supposed to use this free time before bed to brainstorm ways to impress the SACSS team with our collaborative spirit.
So here I am. Ready to discuss the SACSS.
But first, we have to deal with the bee thing.
“That’s your biggest fear?” I let out a scoff while still holding onto my snarky smile.
I was already pretty confident I’d impressed Bob and Hildy today.
If I had to guess, I’d say I cooperated better than Dex in most areas.
Except maybe the rock climbing. That was hard for me.
Either way, when they asked us to get real around the campfire, I laid my whole heart on the line. Meanwhile, Dexter totally failed.
Almost like he didn’t even try.
“Don’t get me wrong,” I say. “Bee stings hurt, but they aren’t exactly harrowing. Unless you’re allergic. Which I already know you are not because you told me during the icebreaker you have no allergies, no appendix, and no tonsils.”
His eyes widen a touch. He’s probably surprised I remember so many details about him. But that’s only because I’ve been taking notes after each activity to study for the test no one else seems to think we’ll have.
Speaking of which, I slip a clipboard and pen from my bag to prove I’m fully prepared to collaborate.
Meanwhile, Dex drops onto his bed, chuckling. “Judging me and my bee-sting fear doesn’t feel like a sign of cooperation, Kroft.” He scoots back on the mattress and toes out of his shoes, his muscly thighs straining against the fabric of his fitted joggers.
Do not look at his thigh muscles, Sayla.
Or his arm muscles. Or anywhere on his body.
“It’s just that some people really got raw about their biggest fears.” I nod out across the clearing in the direction of the fire pit where the last embers are probably still glowing. “And I don’t think you brought your A game.” I arch an eyebrow in a challenge. “Were you hoping to lose?”
“Not everything has to be a competition.” He turns to prop the pillows up at the head of his bed. “But good for you, exposing yourself like you did. Was it true, what you said about your birthday? You never celebrate? No parties? Nothing?”
I try to hold on to my smirk, but my lips feel trembly. “We’re getting a little old for Chuck E. Cheese.”
“Old? Come on.” He guffaws. “You’re not even thirty.”
“Close enough.”
“Does turning thirty bother you?”
“Did it bother you?”
“Fair question.” He combs his fingers through his hair, and it stands up on end, in a way that’s both rumpled and adorable. “The answer is no,” he says, and I’ve already forgotten what I asked, thanks to all the adorability. Adorableness. Whatever.
He’s adorable.
“I’ve heard my sisters and their friends talk about turning thirty,” he continues.
“They make it sound like this potentially dreadful milestone, especially for women. Most especially the single ones. And I’m sure that’s got a lot to do with societal pressure, but, man. I think it’s such a waste of worry.”
Ah, right. That’s the topic. Now I remember.
“You only think that way because you’re not a single woman who’s dying to be married.”
“Thanks,” he snarks. “What gave it away?”
“You literally told me you don’t date, so I went ahead and made that big leap all by myself.”
“Wow.” He puffs out a breath. “You really do remember everything, don’t you?”
“Yep. I do.”
He looks out the window toward the mountainside, the ridge line barely visible in the dark. Just above the peak, clusters of stars flicker in the pitch-black sky. “Well, you’re right,” he says. “I’m not destined to be a family man.”
“Like … never?”
“I don’t know. Maybe not.” He sits up again, readjusting his position on the bed like he’s uncomfortable.
“Why not?” I tip my chin. “Are you afraid you won’t be able to recreate your idyllic childhood or something?
Because personally, I would’ve given anything to grow up in a house like yours.
Full of siblings. With two parents who loved me.
I barely had one parent, and at best, she was halfway decent. ”
Even as I say this, a twinge of guilt pings behind my ribs. My mom wasn’t intentionally damaging. She was just … kind of damaged. But I didn’t know the difference when I was a kid. And knowing now still doesn’t change the fact that her damage shaped me. I am who I am because of her.
“Things weren’t always all sunshine and roses for my family either,” he says.
“Nothing ever is.” The edge of his jaw tightens like he’s holding something back.
He hitches his shoulders, a move I’ve learned he does when he wants to change the subject.
“What about you?” He swings his gaze over to me.
“Loren’s engaged already. And you said your mom’s getting married now, too, right?
Doesn’t that make you want to join the club? Find a man? Get hitched?”
I bark out a laugh. “I want to be the exact opposite of Colleen Kroft.”
Dex chuckles. “Tell me how you really feel.”
“I guess that did come out a little blunt. But let’s just say my mom had a habit of dating men she met at work. Then, when their so-called relationships imploded, so did her job. Which meant we moved around a lot, trying to escape the ghosts of boyfriends past. And she ended up unemployed. A lot.”
He meets my gaze, surveying my face. “Coworkers, huh?”
“My mother’s kryptonite.” I run a finger along the edge of my clipboard. “But the good news is, I’ll never make that mistake.”
“Wow.” His expression shifts into sympathy. “She really did a number on you.”
“I mean, not on purpose.” A lump rises in my throat.
A combination of feeling disloyal to my mother and jealous of Dex’s stable childhood.
“I learned a lot from her, though,” I admit.
“For my whole life, all my mom’s decisions were based on falling hard and breaking up, and I got caught up in the crossfire.
So I decided a long time ago I would never do that.
To myself or to kids. If I don’t have a family, no hearts will be broken on my watch.
And I think I’m better off for knowing what I don’t want as much as knowing what I do. If that makes sense.”
“Perfect sense.” His head bobs, and he averts his eyes. “I feel the same way, to be honest.”
I wrinkle my nose, still confused about how Dexter’s upbringing made him so guarded. But I know I shouldn’t care, and anyway, I’m not trying to connect with him, so I don’t ask. Instead, we both fall silent, my clipboard sitting untouched in my lap.
Dex glances at the blank sheet I put on top for notes.
It’s still blank.
“So much for getting a start on brainstorming tonight.” He presses out a weak laugh.
“It’s not too late,” I say. But sitting here on the bed, not moving for the past several minutes, has got my feet throbbing. So I bend over to shuck off my boots. Peeling off my socks, I can’t avoid pulling air in through my teeth. The skin on the backs of both my heels is raw and angry.
Dex peers down and winces. “Ouch.”
“I really should’ve dealt with these earlier.” I drop my socks on the bed and fish a few Band-Aids from my bag.
He pushes up from the bed. “Hold on.”
He moves into the bathroom to wash and dry his hands. Then he digs around in his duffel bag and produces a small first aid kit. Inside, he’s got a small tube of something. “Neosporin,” he says.
“I don’t—”
“You do, though,” he insists. “Broken blisters get infected pretty easily. Please. Let me.” He crouches in front of my bed, gathering one of my feet in his hands.
His touch is incredibly tender. I’m not used to being taken care of like this.
Especially not so gently. A wave of heat travels up my leg, and I let out a small gasp.
His eyes cut to mine. “Am I hurting you?” The question comes out gruff.
“No, no, not at all,” I assure him. “My skin’s just extra sensitive after being stuck in boots all day.”
“Then I’ll be extra careful.” He gets to work, squeezing antibiotic ointment on the pad of the bandage and smoothing the bandage across my blister. Then he repeats the whole process with my other foot.
“So I guess you’re not grossed out by feet,” I say, pressing out a laugh.
“Hardly.” He lifts his gaze, laughter building in his throat. “Not that I have a fetish or anything.”
“Of course not.” I fight a laugh of my own. “Because that would make you a total weird—”
“Knock, knock!” someone chirps in the doorway.
Tori.
Dexter drops both my feet, leaping up and away from me like I suddenly became radioactive.
Tori’s on the porch with only the screen between us.
She’s dressed in pink silk pajamas and pink boots.
Her face is scrubbed clean, hair in a messy bun.
Note to self: Remember to keep the main door to the cabin shut too, from now on.
“I hope I’m not interrupting,” she says.
“Nah,” Dexter grunts, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Need something?”
She aims a sweet smile at me. “I just wanted to pop in and check on you, Sayla. In case you changed your mind about trading rooms.”
“Thanks, but—” I nod to indicate my bed, where my bag is spilled open. Dexter’s first aid kit, my Band-Aid wrappers, and a tube of Neosporin are scattered there, too. Not to mention my collection of clipboards. “I’m pretty much moved in by now.”
“That’s fantastic.” She beams at me again, then swings her gaze over to Dexter. “As long as I’m here, I was planning to go for a trail run in the morning. Want to join me?”
He grits his teeth, ever so slightly. “I’m more of a street runner. Hills are the worst for my knees.”