CHAPTER TWO
Fact: I am a competent human being behind the safety of my check-in counter. I can answer the phone, have real conversations, even hand people keys to their cabins. But outside the front office—especially in the presence of a good-looking guy with pale green eyes and an easy way of existing—I’m a newborn giraffe.
“Sure.” I turn from the counter and promptly trip over my chair.
Smooth, Lacey.
Since my cheeks can’t get any hotter, I assume my neck and chest are growing blotchy as well, though I can’t check for obvious reasons.
Another fact: my hair is reddish-brown, and my skin is the fair shade that often accompanies that particular color—which basically means I have blushing down to an art.
Turning to Mrs. Tillman, I say, “The showers are open from six to nine. We begin the weekend bonfires at eight, and nightly quiet hours are from ten o’clock to eight in the morning. If you need anything, please let us know.”
After that, I scurry toward her son, my eyes focused on the floor as I try not to look as awkward as I feel.
“I’m Landon,” he says as he holds the door open for me.
Landon. It’s a different name, but it fits his sunshine smile so well.
I tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear and concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. “I’m Lacey.”
“So, you work here?” he asks.
I glance at him, surprised by the odd question. Apparently, he realizes the answer’s pretty obvious because a cringe passes over his face before that easy smile returns.
“My mom owns the place,” I tell him, wondering briefly if he’s nervous too.
But of course he’s not. Why would he be? I mean, look at him. He’s the epitome of casual hotness. He’s the kind that doesn’t try…the kind that doesn’t have to. Every glorious inch of him is muscle, probably sculpted by countless hours hiking, climbing, and biking, and he’s topped it all off with a sun-kissed beach tan.
The Tillman’s travel trailer sits before us in the parking lot, taking up an RV spot. A sullen-looking teen boy, about thirteen, stands outside the brand-new Suburban, holding a bejeweled leash like it’s going to bite him. A white cotton ball dog strains against the lead, pulling for all her ten-pound worth. And how do I know it’s a female cotton ball? Because she’s wearing a frothy pink tutu.
“She started hacking again,” the boy says, glaring at the dog as he shoves her leash at Landon, “and I didn’t think you’d want her to puke on your seat.”
“Thanks,” Landon says wryly, taking the leash, apparently unbothered to be seen with the canine fashion statement.
Without a word, the boy wanders off, phone in the air, toward our gazebo where we’ve set up a cell signal booster.
“That’s Hunter,” Landon tells me, rolling his eyes, and then he motions toward the dog. “And this is Candy.”
I would answer, but my attention is on the young boy plastered to the side window. He’s holding a hastily scrawled sign that reads, “Please, save me.”
“Um,” I say, gesturing to the prisoner.
“And my youngest brother, Caleb,” Landon supplies. He hands me the leash, which I blindly accept, and then opens the door, shooing the boy back so he doesn’t tumble to the asphalt.
The boy sits back in the seat and looks up at Landon. “Can you get my bike down?”
I barely hear him over the sobs in the backseat.
“No.” Landon sets the boy on the ground and points at him. “Stay.”
Then he turns back to the interior of the SUV. A girl several years older than Caleb, but younger than Hunter, stares at Landon. Crocodile tears run down her cheeks. A massive Saint Bernard sits next to her, taking up most of the bench. From the way Landon pushes him into the back, I don’t think the dog is supposed to be there.
“Why are you crying, McKenna?” Landon asks the girl once the dog is out of the way, leaning farther into the vehicle to see her better.
“Candy’s going to die,” she blubbers, her tears starting anew.
Landon sighs. “Candy’s not going to die. She’s fine.”
“Are you sure?” the girl demands.
“Pretty sure.”
Just to remind us she’s still alive, Candy starts making gagging noises. I stare at the cotton puff, horrified. Are Skittles toxic to dogs?
Several seconds later, the noises cease, and she opens her mouth in a wide yawn.
Finally, thank goodness, the elder Tillmans show up.
“Go on,” Mrs. Tillman says to Landon, scooting him out of the way so she can comfort her sniffling daughter. “I’ve got this.”
Landon steps back, far less flustered than I would be.
“Where did Hunter go?” Mr. Tillman asks.
“Uh, that way,” I offer, pointing to the gazebo. “The cell signal is better over there.”
“Ah,” Mr. Tillman says knowingly, and then he rounds the Suburban, heading for the driver’s seat.
I glance down, looking for the littlest Tillman. He’s gone.
Landon notices at the same time and jogs toward the fish pond, grabbing his brother around the middle just as the boy leaps for the boulder at the center of the water—a good five-foot jump. I might be wrong, but I don’t think he would have made it considering he’s only four-foot himself.
“All accounted for?” Mrs. Tillman calls from her window.
Landon gives his mother a wave, and then the Suburban heads down the winding road, toward the camping area.
Suddenly, it’s silent enough to hear the birds again, and I realize I’m still holding Candy-the-Skittle-Eating-Dog’s leash. Feeling a bit befuddled, I hand her back to Landon.
“So…to the campsite?” Landon asks, his eyes sparkling with humor when he takes in the look on my face.
Slowly, I nod. We follow the same path the Tillman’s took.
“I can practically hear your thoughts,” he says after several silent moments.
I look over, taking in his salmon-colored T-shirt and khaki hiking shorts.
“You want to know how we contain all of that in one camper,” he prods.
Because there’s no way to deny it, I laugh a little. “It crossed my mind.”
“It was insane for the first few months,” he admits, talking to me like we’re old friends. His easy manner helps me relax, and I focus on the road in front of us. It’s strewn with pine needles, and this section is shaded by the towering trees to the west. Caleb runs ahead of us, jogs back, and then runs ahead again. He’s a human version of an energy drink.
“Dad came home from work one day a few years ago,” Landon continues, “said he had an amazing idea. Six months later, he quit his job, bought the RV, and we’ve been traveling ever since. It took some adjusting, but it’s been pretty cool.”
“So, you homeschool?” I ask, more for the sake of conversation than curiosity. There are more full-time families than people realize. I made friends with a few before I came to terms with the fact that they all leave. It hurts less to keep my distance.
“I finished my senior year a few months ago,” he answers, and then he turns his head my way. I can feel his eyes on me, but I continue to look straight ahead.
“What grade are you in?” he finally asks.
“I’ll be a senior in the fall.”
“Is there a school here?” He looks around as if the building will magically pop up in front of him.
“Our K-12 is about forty minutes away.”
“That’s a long drive.”
I shrug. “My best friend lives five minutes from here. We ride together, so it’s not so bad.”
“How many kids are in your graduating class?”
Finally, I meet his eyes. “Seven.”
His eyebrows shoot up.
“I know.” I look away, trying not to smile. “We’re a big class. Last year there were only two.”
“We lived in a medium-sized city before we decided to travel,” Landon says. “What’s it like to live here?”
“In the middle of nowhere?”
He flashes me a smile that would make my insides all warm and liquid if I weren’t so guarded against summer boys.
“It’s fine,” I finally answer. “Busy in the summer but quiet the rest of the year.”
“No ski crowds?”
I shake my head. “We’re not close enough to the slopes to get winter traffic, though we do keep a few of our cabins open during the cold months, just in case.”
“What do the local kids do for fun?”
I raise an eyebrow at him. “Fun…?”
He laughs, but before he can press for more, we reach the campsite. Mr. Tillman has already backed in, and he and Mrs. Tillman are trying to decide if they’re too close to a tree on the right-hand side before they unhook the Suburban.
Candy begins to bark as soon as she spots her Saint Bernard brother. The massive dog lies under the picnic table, slobbering all over a treat-stuffed chew toy.
“Landon,” Mr. Tillman says when he sees us. “Run inside and open the table slide.”
I shove my hands into my pockets. “Okay, well. This is you. Obviously.”
Landon hesitates, glancing at the RV, and then he gives me a smile. “Thanks, Lacey. I’ll see you around?”
“I’m always here,” I say, trying to be clever, but then I realize I’ve informed him I have no life.
His smile grows. “Me too—all summer.”
Just for the summer.