S’more of You (Summer Lovin’ collection #1)

Chapter One Margot

Chapter One

Margot

Isolemnly swear never to terrorize Dean Ingram ever again.”

I’m not sure who is more dubious about my vow—my image staring back at me in the cabin’s bathroom mirror or my best friend, Isabel.

“I’m serious,” I say, before Isabel can give voice to her skepticism.

“I’m twenty-one now. A senior counselor at Camp Firefly.

This is the year I start acting like a grown-up and confess my feelings to Dean, instead of leaving a whoopee cushion on his seat while he’s leading the cafeteria in the Pledge of Allegiance. ”

“Really?” Isabel responds wistfully. “That’s my favorite one of your pranks.”

“Me too. The acoustics are great in the cafeteria. But I’m turning over a new leaf.” I whirl away from the sink dramatically. “Say goodbye to Margot, Mistress of Mayhem. Say hello to . . .”

Isabel waits. “What?”

My cheeks heat. “I didn’t get that far. The bottom line is, if I stop being the thorn in Dean’s side, maybe he’ll start thinking of me as girlfriend material.”

“You are girlfriend material,” Isabel says, tapping her hiking boot against mine. “It’s not your fault he ignores you. Dean is just . . . Dean. He’s married to the wilderness. He’s been this way since we were campers.”

“I hate being ignored,” I whisper.

“I know you do, Margs,” Isabel says sympathetically.

I’m the middle child in a family of five kids.

Loud ones. Being drowned out is one of the hazards of coming from a household with so many voices.

Everything is a competition. Obtaining the final slice of pizza could require a death match.

A family of seven people is not for the faint of heart.

And I’m not faint of heart in the slightest.

I’m wild of heart. Emotional, colorful, and theatrical.

I’ve been in Camp Love with my fellow camper turned fellow counselor Dean Ingram since we were thirteen.

Camp Love is a very specific kind of affection.

It’s basically a chronic condition made up of three weeks of intense, almost-painful pining every single summer, followed by an entire year of internet stalking and tearful yearning.

And believe me, there is no satisfaction to be had monitoring Dean’s social media.

At best, I might catch the edge of his hand when he posts a bug he’s holding.

Or a rare rock. By the end of the school year, my romantic well has nearly run dry.

Oh, but then I see him at orientation every June, and my cup runneth over once more.

“Did you see him at the welcome campfire?” I breathe, shaking my head. “He must be at least six foot two now.”

“Yup. He’s like, a full-on grown-up man.”

“When did that happen?”

“It happened to us, too, dude. We’re not thirteen anymore. I got bills, bitch.”

“Exactly.” I hold my best friend’s attention while slowly drawing out a lipstick from the pocket of my jean shorts, then waving it around like it’s the keys to the kingdom. “Time to start acting like we’ve got bills.”

“You’re going to wear makeup? At camp?”

“That’s right. Let’s see if Dean can ignore me in . . .” I check the bottom of the tube. “Dreamy Dahlia. If that doesn’t scream ‘I’m behind on my rent,’ I don’t know what will.”

Isabel hops up from her seat on the closed toilet. “Well, tomorrow morning is the Battle of Firefly Mountain. Boys versus girls. Showing up in lipstick could be a solid diversion tactic—and I’m willing to try anything. The boys’ camp won last year, and they were insufferable for three weeks.”

“Insufferable! Were boys this annoying when we were thirteen?”

“Yes.”

“Right.” I turn back around to face the mirror, a familiar knot forming beneath my collarbone.

One that I associate with my yearly three-week stint at Camp Firefly.

A gathering in my chest that can be attributed to one Dean Ingram, with his gruff, exasperated mutters, his outdoorsman body and furrowed brow.

Always concentrated on his clipboard or whatever kind of rock he just unearthed.

That thick black hair that is merely an afterthought, never styled, a victim of the wind or the absent shove of his fingers.

His pine-tree-and-saltwater scent.

That smile, that is more of a single corner twitch of his mouth, that he bestows on his campers when they say something insightful about nature.

Camp Firefly is more than a three-week diversion for Dean.

He lives and breathes this camp, these woods, the lake.

Once upon a time, Dean’s grandfather founded the summer camp.

Dean’s mother took the reins when his grandfather passed away, only to pass away herself after a battle with cancer when Dean was eighteen.

Now he runs the place. Lives on the property twenty-four seven, three sixty-five.

Sometimes, when camp is over and life returns to normal, it keeps me awake at night in my off-campus apartment in San Luis Obispo, knowing he’s here all by himself.

When I’m rehearsing for community theater productions and my mind should be on lines, projecting, comedic timing .

. . I’m imagining him sitting with the quiet in the absence of his loved ones.

I dream of making the two-and-a-half-hour drive to surprise him, even if I’m the last person he probably wants to see, thanks to my eight-year prank campaign to make him notice me.

“Do you think he’ll show me his Eagle Scout badges this year?” I whisper to Isabel.

Famously, Dean earned all the patches available to an Eagle Scout.

Every summer, without fail, one of the boy campers will beg him to show off the badges at the nightly campfire.

But thanks to my mission of terror, Dean won’t let me come within ten feet of those stinking patches.

I am literally the only counselor who hasn’t seen them.

A fact that causes me physical anguish, because those patches are the most important thing he owns .

. . and Dean is the most important person to my heart. Always has been.

He’s passionate about the earth. Patient with the kids.

Capable of fixing literally anything that breaks. Never, ever panics.

In other words, my polar opposite. And he wants exactly nothing to do with me.

Is this summer too late to change his mind?

A loud crash ensues from the bunk bed–lined cabin on the other side of the bathroom door, followed by squeals of laughter and several more crashes.

Oh, right. We’re counselors now. And we’re on the clock.

“I guess we should go see if anyone needs medical attention,” Isabel sighs.

“I’ll bring the first aid kit.”

With one last hopeful look at my lipstick, I push the tube back into my pocket.