15. Mia #2
David shuts off the engine, climbs off, and sheds the hip waders—which is far sexier than it should be considering they're green rubber and covered in mud—leaving him in blue jeans and a plain dark gray T-shirt. Then he holds out a hand to me. “Come on.”
I take it and he helps me off, then opens the storage compartment and retrieves my bag. “I’ll hose your boots off later,” he says. “I wanna show you something.”
I’d forgotten about my boots. And my bag.
He leads me through the huge garage that houses another truck and an enormous workbench with numerous tools hanging on the wall over it, stacks of wood next to it, and a circular saw attached to one end. He heads for a door that I assume leads into the backyard.
I am so ready to see whatever the surprise is that would immediately tip off his brothers that he’s not feeling casual about me.
What does that even mean exactly? Not casual. That’s not ‘just friends’. That’s not ‘you’re nice but I don’t want to kiss you’. He clearly does want to kiss me. But not casual doesn’t mean he’s going to get down on one knee.
Should I just ask him?
I could just ask him.
We’re in our thirties for fuck’s sake. I shouldn’t be wondering about and analyzing every word he says, and I shouldn’t be having arguments with myself about my feelings.
He pushes the door open and ushers me through. I step onto a stone pathway that runs alongside a deck built onto the back of the house.
Yes, I should just ask him what he means. We should talk about what’s going on. I should tell him that I’m developing feelings and let him decide if that means this is over or if he wants to keep going and see what happens.
He takes my hand and tugs me along the path, past the deck and into the backyard.
That’s a good plan. I’ll tell him how I’m feeling. I’ll say something like ‘David, we should talk. I really like you, I’ve been having a lot of fun, and our kissing has made me realize…’
I forget everything I was just thinking when I step past the deck and see his backyard.
Because…yeah, this isn’t just casual.
David might just be an amazing kisser, and other women might have been kissed the way he’s kissed me, but I do not think he’s done this for a lot of other women.
I look up at him, unsure how to respond.
He gives me a grin. “You said you wanted to camp. It’s way too wet and muddy, but I had to figure out a way to make it happen.”
I swallow hard. Be cool. Do not tell him you’re falling in love with him. I nod. “Not to mention you probably have fewer serial killers and dead bodies here.”
Okay, good. That was good. That was not a sweet, romantic, clingy thing to say to the man who has his pickup parked in his backyard, tailgate down, an air mattress filling the back, and piled with multiple blankets and pillows.
The truck bed is facing the deck, where he has mounted a white sheet between two poles and has a projector sitting on a small table, pointing at the make-shift movie screen.
There are six more poles surrounding the truck with fairy lights strung between them, forming a soft white light canopy over the truck.
The sun has not fully set, so we’re going to be able to see the gorgeous colors of the sunset off to the west, and once darkness falls, I can only imagine how gorgeous the starry sky overhead is going to be.
It looks incredibly cozy and comfortable, and it’s thoughtful and definitely romantic.
But despite my talk of dead bodies, David chuckles. “Yes. Camping can be harrowing at times.”
I snort. Dealing with a serial killer seems a little beyond harrowing, but I love his sense of humor. Not only did he send me that book, but he also finds it amusing that I read it, and we can joke about it.
“Are you trying to tell me that camping isn’t always like this?” I ask him, gesturing toward the truck, fairy lights, and pillows.
I’m still gobsmacked but trying to be cool. And not throw myself at him.
“It is not.”
“So after this, I may never want to camp any other way.” I meet his eyes. “You might ruin me.”
A sentence has never felt truer. In so many ways.
His eyes flare with heat, and his smile has a wicked edge. “Maybe we should just make a rule that you always go camping with me. Whatever you want to try, I’ll make it happen.”
Okay, come on . He had to mean that in a dirty way, right? That can’t be entirely my imagination.
I squeeze my thighs together and swallow hard.
Stop. It.
He’s being sweet right now. But he doesn’t actually mean that if I want to go camping in Yellowstone National Park five years from now, he’ll be up for making that trip with me. ‘Not casual’ and ‘forever’ are two very different things.
“That’s a big promise,” I finally say. My voice sounds funny.
He moves a little closer. “You’re right. How about we see how this goes and how I do with this first camping attempt? Then you can decide what comes next.”
There’s a lot of underlying meaning behind his words. He’s not talking just about camping. He’s saying I get to decide what comes next in general.
But do I? What does he want? Does that mean he wants whatever I do? What if I want something serious and long-term?
He wanted tonight to happen. He could have used the storm as an excuse not to see you.
It really hits me for the first time that he set this night up. And what that means.
He didn’t have to. The storm cancelled the bonfire, and that would have been the perfect excuse to not see each other tonight if he didn’t want to. If he was just humoring me with all of this ‘running into each other casually’. If he wasn’t enjoying it as much as I have been.
He did want to.
He not only wanted to, but he also set the whole thing up. He didn’t just go along with some plan I came up with, like the bar, the deer stand, or the bonfire tonight. He turned his backyard into a cozy, romantic ‘campground’ for just the two of us.
He didn’t have to show up to paint fingernails either.
No. No, he didn’t.
I let that realization really sink in.
David wanted to see me tonight. He wanted to spend time with me. Just the two of us.
I look toward the pickup.
“Are there going to be s’mores?” I finally ask, hoping my voice doesn’t sound too scratchy.
He scoffs. “Please. What kind of camping would it be without s’mores?” He pauses. “I’m almost afraid to tell you…”
“What?” I ask, probably too eagerly.
“I’ve got three kinds.”
My eyes widen. “Three kinds of s’mores?”
He nods.
“Oh my god.”
His smile turns into a full-on smirk. “Yeah, but maybe we should just stick to the classics. Wouldn’t want to ruin you.”
I want you to ruin me .
I can’t say that out loud. But I have to press my lips together to keep it from spilling out. I get myself under control, then say, “Yeah, that might be best.”
Then, much to my delight, he shakes his head. “On second thought, I’m pulling out all three. I don’t want you to ever eat a s’more again without thinking of me.”
And yeah, this isn’t casual, there’s nothing I can do about my feelings, and I might already be ruined.