Page 123 of Camp Bliss
“I hate you,” I mutter, slamming the tamper against the already packed sand at my feet.
Chuckling, Zach squats down again for the next bag. “Liar.”
He’s got me there.
I don’t hate him.
I’m gonzo for him.
And this taking-it-slow thing? It’s sort of getting out of hand.
Because I’m not really sure how much good it’s doing me.
I said as much to Trina in our last session a few days ago. And you know what she said?
Then why haven’t you done anything to move the two of you out of this holding pattern?
My answer?
Duh! Because I’m scared!
Yep.
That’s the truth. And everyone knows it.
Well, everyone being me, Trina, and Zach.
The thing is, I don’t know if doing nothing more than kissing—albeit deep, searing, white-hot kissing—is actually helping me at all.
Because even if everything below the belt is stuck at a red light, my heart is blowing through the intersection at break-neck speed.
Like I said, I’m gonzo for Zach.
How could I not be?
The man is incredible.
And not because he’s more beautiful than anything the sun touches. Though that is God’s honest truth.
He is so careful. With everything. With every tool he picks up and sets down. With our countless spreadsheets. With the contractors we’ve hired.
And especially with me.
I used to think that his deliberate, methodical perfectionism was an affliction. That he did everything exactly right because he was wound too tight and needed total control. Like some kind of compulsion.
But that’s not it at all. It’s because he’s so present in every moment, so conscious about what he’s doing, that everything he does turns out perfectly.
And the man is so sweet.
He’s almost always up first, and he must have psychic abilities because ten mornings out of ten, he has a steaming cup of coffee waiting for me at my spot at the kitchen island—right when I walk into the lodge.
I don’t know how he knows when to make the perfect pour because I don’t run like clockwork. Some mornings, I drag ass. Some mornings, Russell takes forever to make his morning dump. Some mornings, I swear, I’m only ten minutes behind Zach.
And every morning, my mug is there. Steam curling above just the right blend of coffee and creamer.
I’ve asked him how he does it. He won’t tell me. He just smirks.
Bastard.
