Chapter 35 #2
I speak conversational German, which means I can pick up most of their conversation.
“Should we offer to help?” the woman stage-whispers to her partner.
“Nein,” he replies, not bothering to lower his voice. “This is better than television.”
Bollocks. We’re supposed to be blending in with our fellow campers, but at this rate, we’ll be trending on social media as the idiots who can’t pitch a tent.
And seeing Eoin standing there with a cute crease on his forehead as he tries to make sense of pole A versus pole B, the dying sunlight catching in his hair, I have the sudden, mortifying urge to smooth that worry line with my thumb.
Which is precisely the kind of thought that needs to be immediately murdered and buried in an unmarked grave.
Right. Deflection protocol activated. I lean over and pluck the instructions from his grip.
“Now, according to diagram B,” I say, “we need to work together to achieve proper erection.” I pause for a second, trying to suppress my smirk before I continue, “It apparently requires synchronized movements and mutual cooperation.”
Eoin’s shoulders tense, and he shoots me a look that’s equal parts exasperation and something else I refuse to examine too closely. “Are you reading from the actual manual or making this up?”
“Would I fabricate camping terminology for my own amusement? I’m wounded by your lack of faith in my commitment to proper tent assembly.”
“Your ability to turn camping equipment into innuendo is disturbing,” Eoin says, though there’s a telltale twitch at the corner of his mouth.
“It’s a skill,” I agree solemnly. “Now, about your pole problem—”
A muscle jumps in Eoin’s jaw. “I don’t have a pole problem,” he growls.
“Of course not,” I say in a soothing voice. “Your pole is perfectly adequate. Robust, even. It’s just a matter of finding the right angle of approach.”
We both reach for the same pole, and Eoin moves to position himself behind me as we try to thread it through the diagonal sleeve.
“Hold it steady,” Eoin commands.
“I am holding it steady. You’re the one shaking.”
“I’m not shaking. I’m adjusting the angle.” His hands cover mine on the pole, warm and sure. “It needs to go deeper.”
“Story of my life,” I murmur, then bite my lip as his grip tightens.
Oh god, this isn’t me keeping Eoin at bay with my humor.
This is flirting.
“You can’t just say things like that.” His breath is hot against my ear as we both lean in to guide the pole home.
I force myself to focus on the tent fabric in front of us, though every nerve ending seems hyperaware of his chest pressed against my back.
“Like what? I’m simply agreeing with your assessment of our insertion depth requirements.
Though I do think we need more tension. The manual was very clear about maintaining proper tension throughout. ”
“The manual said nothing about tension,” he says through gritted teeth.
“Must have been reading between the lines,” I concede. “But you have to admit, our technique is improving. Look how smoothly that went in once we found our rhythm.”
“Nicholas.” Just my name, but the way he says it—half warning, half plea—sends heat spiraling through me despite our ridiculous circumstances.
I lean into him to feel more of the solid warmth of his chest against my back.
And god, the feeling of his breath turning ragged in my ear has my cock perking up.
Which isn’t what needs to be added to this scenario.
I take a careful step away from him, my heel catching on one of the rogue tent pegs we’ve scattered like landmines.
I try to hide how affected I am by his proximity, bending to check that the corner tent peg is secure in the ground.
“Next time we flee from terrorists, I vote for a nice hotel. With room service. And beds that don’t require engineering degrees.”
“I agree,” Eoin replies.
Twenty minutes later, we’ve achieved something that could generously be called tent-adjacent. It leans dangerously to one side and the door appears to be on the roof, but it’s standing. Mostly.
“Home sweet home,” I say, then add more quietly, “We should probably take turns staying awake in case it collapses and smothers us in our sleep.”
“I’m not planning to sleep much tonight anyway,” he says, then turns around to discover one of our German neighbors has popped up behind him and is now staring at him with wide eyes.
“We’re on our honeymoon,” he says quickly. “My husband thought camping would be romantic.”
Our neighbor frowns at this revelation. “I am concerned about any marriage that starts with such a structural failure.”
He whips out a multi-tool from one of his seventeen cargo pockets and descends on our tent like a surgeon approaching a critical patient. Within thirty seconds, he’s tutting in German as his hands fly over poles and fabric.
“You attach here, not here,” he says, demonstrating clips we hadn’t even noticed existed. “And this pole—ach, who taught you this?—goes diagonal for structure.”
In under three minutes, our abstract art installation has transformed into an actual tent.
It’s not until he retreats with our thanks that I turn to Eoin with a raised eyebrow.
“Honeymoon?”
“Well, why else am I not sleeping tonight? And people won’t expect Prince Nicholas with a man, will they? It’s the perfect cover story.”
“Cover story,” I repeat. “Right.”
Eoin just stares at me.
I clear my throat, stepping back before I do something spectacularly stupid.
“Food.” I’m proud that my voice only cracks slightly. “We should definitely focus on food next.”
The communal cooking area consists of two rust-spotted barbecues and a splintering picnic table.
Together, we set up the charcoal and fire starters underneath the grill.
Unfortunately, our dinner prospects from the car’s previous owners are eclectic at best: half a packet of sausages of questionable origin, three bruised apples, and a tin of baked beans.
“Gourmet camping cuisine,” I say.
“I’m sure the Michelin stars are imminent,” Eoin says wryly as I fumble with the fire starter.
After a few seconds, he steps in. “Let me do it. I wouldn’t want you burning yourself on our honeymoon, sweetheart.”
Despite my best intentions, the endearment sends a flush of warmth through me.
And I can’t help myself. I lean into the performance, my hand finding the small of his back. “My hero. However did I land such a capable husband?”
A young couple at the other barbecue smiles at us indulgently. Eoin’s ears pink slightly, but he plays along, his arm sliding around my waist. “Just lucky, I suppose.”
Standing cooking hip-to-hip with him feels right.
But it’s not real. This is just an interlude where I can pretend not to be a prince, pretend to simply be a man in love on my honeymoon. Pretend that this is not another elaborate deception.
Yet I can’t help leaning into Eoin, tucking myself beneath his chin. The other couple has returned to their tent, leaving us alone with the dying barbecue coals and this dangerous pantomime.
“You’re rather good at this,” I murmur against his neck, feeling the slight hitch in his breathing. “Playing husband.”
His fingers tighten almost imperceptibly on my hip. “Just following your lead, Your—” He catches himself, my title dying on his lips. “Nicholas.”
His mouth brushes my forehead, just a whisper of lips, and I tilt my face up to meet his eyes.
There’s a question there, and I can’t stop myself from answering it in the most definitive way possible.
I stretch up and close the distance between us.
It’s a gentle kiss, lips soft and searching. It’s the first time we’ve kissed since I discovered Eoin’s real identity.
It’s a kiss full of longing, of impossible tomorrows. And it tells the story of how much I still want him.
You can’t hide anything in a kiss. At least, I can’t.
His hand cradles the back of my head, fingers tangling gently in my chemically abused hair.
Eoin kisses me like he wants to keep me safe, like he’s trying to build a fortress around us with nothing but careful lips and firm hands.
Unfortunately, our sausages have other plans.
The smell of burning meat and the acrid smoke makes us spring apart like guilty teenagers, both breathing unsteadily.
“Shite.” Eoin lunges for the tongs while I grab the plate, both of us suddenly occupied by the mechanics of not burning down the entire campground.
Which is a good thing, as it gives me a chance to reset my pulse to its usual tempo.
“I think we’ve invented a new camping delicacy.” I hold up a sausage that’s achieved the texture of volcanic rock. “Carbonized mystery meat with notes of lighter fluid.”
“Ah, catch yourself on,” Eoin says, though there’s fondness in it. “That’s what my da used to say when we complained about dinner. Means stop your whining.”
“Well, consider me thoroughly caught on.” Despite its suspicious appearance, I take a bite because apparently fleeing terrorists has lowered my standards considerably.
I concentrate on eating dinner rather than thinking about that kiss with Eoin and exactly what it means.
After we’ve both choked down some food, we head back to our structurally-sound-thanks-to-German-engineering tent.
The inside of the tent seems impossibly small, especially when the lantern light catches the angles of Eoin’s face, throwing shadows that emphasize the line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth that I’ve memorized but can’t stop staring at.
Eoin checks his weapon—again—then tucks it within easy reach.
I want him.
I want him so much.
And it appears that want is strong enough to override everything else in my brain.