Page 98 of Camp Bliss
And I’d be as intimidated as humanly possible if it weren't for her smile, which is warm and sweet and aimed straight at me.
“You must be Greta.” With the grace of someone who knows just how to enter a room, she crosses the lodge and extends her hand to me. “I’m Sunny. It’s so good to finally meet you.”
I take her hand, wondering if she majored in poise in college.
And wondering why I didn’t.
“H-Hi. This is such a nice surprise.” I’m stammering, but as soon as the words are out, I realize they’re true. I’m glad that they are here, even as half of my awareness is tagged on Zach as he moves into the kitchen and grabs the serving tray from its spot on the counter.
“I hope you’ll forgive us for that. Call me Marco.” Zach’s father steps up from behind his wife, encircling her waist with one arm while offering me his hand with the other. His eyes are the same color as Zach’s, a green and gold hazel that makes it hard to look away. His hair is more nickel than silver, but there’s plenty of it, which makes me grin, thinking that Zach will probably always sport that wild mane of his, even if it turns metallic as he ages.
Zach’s father smiles back at me as he pumps my hand. “I tried to talk Sunny out of springing the visit on you two, but she insisted.” He wrinkles his nose with a playful glint in his eye. “I usually let her have her way.”
She makes a delicatepfftsound.“Let me?You make it sound easy. I had to twist your arm.” She narrows her gaze at her husband, but there’s no real heat in it. Just warmth. “I had to promise to book under a name that would at least drop a hint as to who we were.”
Zach is transferring the two cocktails onto the tray when he stops, frowning at his mother. “What are you talking about?”
His mom blushes, and I swear I’ve seen that blush before, and I don’t love it any less on her. “It was silly.” She gives an embarrassed shrug.
Zach’s gaze snaps to mine. “What name did they book under?”
Three pairs of Rousseau eyes land on me. I’m the one who manages the reservations for our overnight guests. I did notice that the names were unusual when I first got the booking a couple of weeks ago, but then I promptly forgot about it.
“Um… Honey and Duke Butters.”
“Oh my God, Mom.” Zach groans, aiming an incredulous look at his mother. “You booked your reservation using thedogs’names?”
His mom lifts a hand to her mouth and giggles adorably. His dad takes one look at her and busts into a full-body laugh. “You didn’t.” Then he wraps her in a hug and the two of them dissolve into fits.
“Jesus Christ,” Zach mutters, setting the drinks down on the tray and shaking his head.
I catch his eye, grinning. “The family dogs are named Honey and Duke?”
“And Butters,” he says flatly. He doesn’t look amused at all.
It’s hilarious. I can’t help my own giggles. I’m really beginning to like his parents.
His mom tries to get herself under control, but doesn’t quite succeed. “I thought you’d figure it out, sweetie.”
Zach rolls his eyes. “Well, I would have if I’d known that Duke and Honey Butters were staying with us. I just didn’t see the booking. Greta takes care of that.”
His dad’s grin turns sheepish. “So you weren’t joking when you said you had absolutely no idea we were coming.”
“Nope.” He sets the small charcuterie board of snacks I’ve prepared onto the tray: water crackers, a wedge of camembert, sliced Fuyu persimmon, herbed olives, and spicy and candied pecans. Everything but the crackers is from my most recent haul at the Moncus Park Farmer’s Market.
The spread is a little different every week, and I love that.
Zach lifts the tray and gestures toward the lodge’s front porch where we’ve set up cafe tables. “Mr. and Mrs. Butters, cocktails and hors d'oeuvres are being served al fresco,” he deadpans.
His parents laugh and follow him to the door. I’d laugh too if his eyes didn’t look so tight. He’s stressed. That’s obvious. I just don’t know if it’s because of his parents' surprise visit, or the unwanted kiss and lingering awkwardness, or all of the above.
All I know is that I’d be enjoying this a lot more if I knew he were too.
I grab two water glasses and one of the chilled glass bottles from the fridge and make it outside just as Mr. Rousseau is pulling out his wife’s chair. She sits as Zach sets the tray on the table.
“But there’s just two cocktails,” she exclaims, looking at me and Zach with obvious distress. “Aren’t you two going to join us?”
Zach’s mouth is a flat line. “We aren’t in the habit of sharing Happy Hour with our guests.”
