Page 21 of Camp Bliss
You’ll get no argument from me,I want to add.
We move to the next stake and take refuge in the auger’s noise and controlled chaos as it churns the earth and sprays dirt on our feet.
And we pick up right where we left, again, making good time moving from stake to stake. The only problem with this whole arrangement is that as we hold the two-man auger across from each other, the way she grips the handles on her side seems to form a little box.
Right in front of her pelvis.
And in the center of that box is a little arrow of shiny gray fabric. Right between her thighs.
Dammit all if the more I tell myself not to look, the more I look.
Except for her retro playlist—now on New Order’s “Blue Monday”—we work in silence. So I get to go round after round with my conscience.
It’s not my fault Greta Ste. Marie is empirically attractive. Any man, woman, or child would agree with that. And it’s natural for the human gaze to fall on what’s unquestionably beautiful. Cavemen gazed at the starlit sky. Undoubtedly, the first person to stumble upon the Grand Canyon stared, slack-jawed. Probably for days.
A beautiful woman is no less a natural wonder.
Just because I can’t stop looking means nothing.
It means nothing at all.
* * *
Two hours later,we stop for lunch under the draping branches of one of the massive live oaks. Sitting in its shade feels at least ten degrees cooler than in the baking sun. The tree’s base is easily as big as a dining room table. Or a full-size mattress.
It’s incredible.
I gaze up at its twisted girth and hope that I never get blasé about being in this beautiful place. Mindlessly, I bring my sandwich up to my lips and take a bite.
“Mmm.”
A surprise of flavor floods my mouth. I look over at Greta sitting a few feet away, still unwrapping her sandwich. Russell’s got his head in her lap, but he’s eyeing the sandwich like it’s an angelic herald above him. He might be right.
“What is this?” I ask through a mouthful of awesomeness.
“Curry chickpea salad,” Greta says flatly.
I take another bite, crunching into cucumber and creaminess. It’s a cold sandwich, but the spices and purple onion add a flare of heat.
“Damn,” I mutter with appreciation. “It’s good.”
Greta’s gaze flits to mine, and her stony expression softens.
Just a little.
“Thanks.”
Silence.
Every second is a new record for us. We’ve never spent this much time together without Josh. It feels like free-climbing. Any minute now, I’m going to miss a toe-hold and scrape my way down.
And without the work in our hands, she’s right. This silence is damn awkward.
As much as I want to avoid this—or rather,her—the obvious stiffness in her posture and guarded look in her eyes churns up more guilt in my gut.
The animosity between us? It technically isn’t her fault.
It’s mine.
