CHAPTER SIXTEEN
A man walks into the office wearing pressed khakis, a butter-colored polo shirt, and tan loafers. My first instinct is to ask him if he’s lost.
“Can I help you?” I ask.
He spots my mother’s sculpture near the front counter. “As a matter of fact, I believe you can. I’m looking for Cassie Morrison.”
For one terrifying moment, I wonder if this man is from the bank. But then I remember the campground’s paid and clear, and I’m left with no clue who he might be or why he’s asking for my mother.
“She’s not in right now. Do you want me to give her a call?”
“Would you mind?”
I’m about to ask him for his info when he beats me to it by flipping a sharp and glossy business card on the counter between us.
“All right, Mr. …” I peer at the card. “Albert. Let me see if I can reach her. Cell service is a little spotty around here.”
He gives me an amused, closed-mouth smile. “I’ve noticed.”
Instead of calling, I text. There’s a fussy-looking man here asking about you. Do you want me to tell him you’re in your studio?
I set the phone aside, smiling pleasantly. I’m not entirely sure she’ll answer—after all, I wasn’t lying when I said the cell service stinks.
But a few moments later, my phone chimes. Who is he?
I glance at the card and type, Fredrick Albert, Head Curator at the Denver—
Whoa. Hold up.
Who is this guy?
“I buy art,” the man says, his eyes scrunched in the corners. He’s obviously amused by my reaction. “I saw Cassie’s work on a YouTube video.”
“Right,” I say, giving him a curious smile, growing excited. Mrs. Tillman gushed about a few of Mom’s pieces a few weeks ago. Somehow, this man must have found the video.
I finish the text, and two seconds later, Mom responds, Send him over.
“She’s in her studio,” I tell him, setting the phone aside. It’s the first cabin after you pass the house—the little one in the trees.”
Send Mark over just in case he’s a serial killer, Mom texts as an afterthought.
I glance at Mr. Albert, worried he might have seen what she wrote, but he’s already headed for the door.
After I send Uncle Mark a text, I try to focus on my work, a task that’s not so easy when Landon comes walking in the door.
“You busy?” he asks.
“Nope.” I bite back a grin. “I just like to sit in front of the computer and work on spreadsheets for the fun of it.”
He chuckles and rests his tall self against the counter. “With anyone else, that might be sarcasm, but with you, I’m not sure.”
“Do you need something?”
“You,” he says lightly, but the words make me flush.
“Oh yeah?”
“I have been instructed to invite my girlfriend over for dinner. Dad’s smoking ribs, and Mom and McKenna are putting the finishing touches on a three-layer Black Forest cake.”
“Both of those are impressive feats to undertake in a camper,” I say lightly, trying to hide the fact that hearing him call me his girlfriend does funny things to my pulse. “Black Forest…that means chocolate, right?”
“Indeed.” He leans down lower, meeting my eyes. “So what do you say? Want to brave my family for the evening?”
I give him a one-shouldered shrug. “Maybe. Because there’s cake.”
His answering grin is fast, and it does nothing to settle my humming nerves. “I’ll meet you when you’re finished, and we’ll walk together.”
“Okay.” I realize I’ve typed the same number twice. “Now go away. You’re distracting me.”
“Oh, yeah?” He raises his eyebrows, openly flirting. “Like a good distraction?”
“Go.”
***
Done for the day, I lock the office. As Landon walks with me to his site, he tells me how Hunter dropped their dad’s expensive camera this afternoon. It seems to be in working order, but Hunter’s still pouting, so I’ve been warned that he might not be in the best mood.
Though, with Hunter, how can you tell the difference between a good mood and a bad one?
“You okay?” Landon asks when we’re close to the campsite.
I’ve been around the Tillmans dozens of times now, but for some reason, I’m incredibly nervous this evening.
I almost jump at the question. “Hmm? Oh, I’m just preparing myself. I’m still new at this fake girlfriend stuff.”
He gives me a funny look, like he wants to say something but changes his mind.
“I’m a little nervous,” I admit.
“It will be fine,” he answers, looking ahead. “Just pretend it’s real.”
Because that will help.
Then, for the sake of the ruse, Landon takes my hand. I swallow back a surprised giggle.
McKenna runs toward us as soon as she spots us walking up the road. Tethered to her leash, which is attached to the picnic table, Candy yelps, trying to follow. To her dismay, she realizes she can go no farther than the trailer door.
George lifts his head to see what the racket is all about. He wags his tail a few times when he sees us and then yawns and goes back to napping.
The most delicious-smelling campfire smoke wafts our way, making my stomach growl. Judging from the spicy, sweet aroma, Mr. Tillman’s ribs are going to be amazing. All the nearby campers must be jealous.
“Hey, Lacey.” Landon’s dad raises a pair of tongs in greeting. “Glad to have you.”
“Thanks,” I say, though I’m hit with another bout of nerves.
Landon lightly touches my shoulder after he lets go of my hand. “Want something to drink?”
I nod.
“Did you throw extra drinks in the cooler?” he asks his Dad.
“Yeah, there’s all kinds of stuff in there. I think William and Barbara are going to stop by in a bit, so I wanted to make sure we had plenty.”
Landon digs through the ice in the cooler and pulls several options to the top.
“William and Barbara from Site Fifteen?” I choose a bottle of lemon-lime soda, hoping sipping it will ease my nerves.
Mr. Tillman opens the tabletop smoker, letting out a billowing cloud of barbecue-scented heaven. “That’s right. Barbara has been helping Sarah piece together the quilt she’s been working on down at the community center.”
So that’s where Mrs. Tillman has been sewing that quilt. I wondered how she managed it in the RV. Gray Jay’s community center is tiny—just a restored Victorian house on Main Street, but it’s a favorite hangout for crafty ladies much older than Landon’s mother.
“Hi there, Lacey,” Landon’s mom says, walking through the camper door with a massive bowl of potato salad in one hand and a tossed salad in the other.
Caleb comes running out behind his mother. “I got a geode!” he tells me.
“You did? From where?”
“The rock and mineral shop in town, like you suggested the other day,” Hunter says, coming down the steps behind his brother, looking about as chipper as always.
Caleb scowls at him. “It’s my story.”
Hunter rolls his eyes, sits at the picnic table, and pulls out his phone.
“Landon broke it open earlier,” Caleb continues, turning back to me. “Do you want to see it?”
I nod, and he scurries back into the camper, off to retrieve his treasure.
“Is he over his gold fascination?” I ask Landon quietly.
He shakes his head. “No. He talked to the man at the shop for thirty minutes about the history of mining in the area.”
Colorado is perhaps known more for its silver and uranium than gold, but we had a short rush of our own in the eighteen hundreds.
“Are the ribs done?” Mrs. Tillman asks her husband as she places the bowls in the middle of the picnic table. She’s already set it with a brightly striped tablecloth and lit several jar candles. In the middle of the table, there’s a bowl of hot pink flowers, something she must have planted since they’re going to be here all summer.
The Tillmans are better at this camping thing than most.
“Yep, we’re ready to eat,” Landon’s dad confirms.
You don’t have to tell the younger boys twice. Caleb and Hunter leap in, though Landon holds back with me. After we fill our plates, we sit in camp chairs scattered around the site. It’s all very casual, and it sets me at ease—even if Landon is right next to me.
But no matter how many times I tell myself this isn’t real, I catch myself feeling like maybe it is. That’s crazy though. I’d know if something had shifted between us…
Wouldn’t I?
“Can I bring out the cake?” McKenna asks her mom after the last of the leftovers have been spirited away.
“Yes, but be careful,” Mrs. Tillman instructs.
Nodding solemnly, McKenna walks into the camper. Several moments later, she appears at the door with a gorgeous cake precariously teetering in her hands. She pauses at the top of the stairs, frowning in concentration.
“Don’t trip,” Mr. Tillman says.
She’s just coming down the last step when Candy spots a dog walking with his owners on the road. The little cotton puff runs in front of McKenna, tripping the girl with her sparkly pink leash. McKenna tumbles forward, shrieking.
Landon leaps up, grabbing McKenna before she can fall face first on the ground, and he ends up with a shirt-full of chocolate cherry cake. Everyone is silent for several moments, and then Caleb glares at Candy and loudly proclaims, “Stupid mutt!”
“Caleb,” Mrs. Tillman reprimands, standing to relieve McKenna of the empty plate. McKenna’s lower jaw trembles as she surveys the mess.
“Don’t cry,” her mom says, though she looks as heartbroken about the loss of perfectly good chocolate as the next person. “It was just an accident. No one’s mad at you.”
Hunter watches silently, looking conflicted. It’s obvious he’s amused that his older brother got caked…but at the same time, he’s irked that now there’s no cake. It’s quite a predicament. I’m not sure which emotion is winning.
Mrs. Tillman turns to Landon and frowns. “We’ll take your shirt to the laundry room when it opens in the morning.”
I eye the fudge chocolate and thick cherry pie filling as it goops down the front of Landon’s stomach.
“You can use our washer,” I volunteer.
Landon turns to me, and I get a full view of the mess. A jagged piece of cake falls to his feet, followed by a gob of frosting. I try not to laugh…but I fail.
He cracks a smile, and soon we’re all laughing to the point that our stomachs hurt, and we can’t breathe.
“Come on,” I tell Landon once I catch my breath, motioning for him to follow me.
We say goodbye to the rest of the Tillmans and head to my house. It’s such a nice evening; most campers are out and about. They sit around campfires, waiting for dark. We get some pretty weird looks when they spot Landon. He acknowledges them with friendly greetings, but we don’t stop until we reach my house.
The front door is locked, so we go around the back. It’s locked too.
“Mom must have gone out,” I explain, and then I pull a key out of my back pocket. Even though it’s just dusky outside, it’s dark inside, so I flip on the lights in the kitchen as we enter.
As soon as my phone connects to the internet, a text message comes through, assisted by our WiFi. I read it and then toss my phone on the counter. “Mom and Mark went for dinner in town, and then they’re going to drive down to the city to watch a movie.”
“What’s the chance I’m going to get this all in my hair?” Landon asks.
I turn to face him, and then I freeze. His shirt is halfway over his head, and I’m left with an eyeful of toned stomach and chest.
“The chances are pretty good,” I say absently.
He pulls off the shirt, turning it inside out so it doesn’t make a horrific mess.
“Well?” he asks, flashing me a knee-weakening grin.
My mouth goes dry. “Well…what?”
His eyes glint with humor. “Am I covered in chocolate?”
Unbidden, my feet shuffle forward until I’m right in front of him. There’s chocolate on his collarbone, neck, a little on his jaw, and just a bit in his hair.
“Yeah,” I say. My voice sounds off, even to my own ears.
His smile flickers with something even more delicious than the icing. He rubs his neck, trying to get the frosting off. “Where?”
Never in my life have I shown this much restraint. I should win an award.
“Um,” I hover my hand over him, pointing out spots. “Here, here, here, and here… Just a minute. I’ll get you a paper towel.”
I turn from him, needing to put space between us, and walk to the sink. Is it sweltering in here? We should open a few more windows…
I wet a handful of paper towels and turn…only to find him right in front of me.
“Here you go,” I say brightly, trying to keep my eyes on his face and off his chest. It’s a very nice chest…the kind athletes have. A soccer player’s chest.
Landon takes the paper towels, but his eyes are on mine. The air gets a little too thick to breathe. “Thanks,” he says.
“Yep.”
I rest my lower back against the counter as he dabs at his neck, watching as he misses the chocolate completely. I could lead him to a mirror…or I could do it myself. That’s allowed, right? I mean, I’m just helping.
People aren’t helpful enough anymore—Mom used to tell me that all the time when I was younger.
I hold out my hand. “Want me to…”
He steps a smidgen closer. “Sure.”
I carefully dab at his skin, wiping the frosting away. We’re close and getting closer.
“So,” I say, desperately needing to keep my mouth busy talking so I don’t do something reckless. “Did you play sports when you were younger?”
“Lacrosse,” he says.
“Oh.” I wipe frosting off his jaw. “We don’t have that at our school. I think I’ve seen it on television though. It’s like a ball game with butterfly nets, right?”
He steps in, close enough I can feel the heat coming off his skin. Oh, this is bad. What are we doing? This isn’t how people who are pretending to be in a relationship act when they’re alone.
“Something like that.” There’s amusement in his voice, but he’s lowered it, dropped it to a silky almost-whisper.
“We’re not in public,” I remind him when he brushes his lips against my jaw. It’s my last noble effort to keep things simple.
“No, we’re not.”
“I thought we weren’t going to—”
“I changed my mind.”
“Okay?” Oddly it comes out like a question.
“Okay?” he chuckles under his breath. “What does that—”
“Kiss me already.”
His eyes lock with mine, and time stands still. Then, waking from the trance, Landon’s hands fly to the sides of my waist, and he pulls me to him. Our mouths meet in a kiss that neither of us can pretend has anything to do with us practicing our chemistry or furthering the cause of our ruse. I let my hands drift to his chest…which is a bad idea considering he’s still rather shirtless.
You have five more seconds, that little voice says, though even it’s losing intensity. Landon doesn’t hesitate this time, and to my surprise, neither do I. I pour myself into the kiss—hold nothing back, and he meets me.
I lean against the counter, accidentally knocking a cup into the sink, making a dreadful racket. We abruptly break apart and blink at each other, both of us out of breath and slightly dazed. Suddenly, I realize how quiet it is. The grandfather clock in the living room ticks with each passing second, and the sound becomes deafening.
Landon’s eyes search mine, and his fingers tighten on my sides. I gulp. We’ve crossed a line—a very serious line. And I want to do it again. In fact, I want to erase the line, scratch it out, wash it away and pretend we never created it.
His chest moves with each labored breath, betraying the fact that he’s as shaken as I am. “Are we—”
Before he can finish, I stand on my toes and wrap my hand around the back of his neck, dragging his lips down to mine. He chuckles darkly, a sound that makes my knees wobble, and meets me with fervor.
And then the front door opens.
“Lacey,” Mom calls. “Are you home? We’re back.”