I pull back and stare between the round face in front of me and the coin that’s being held out for me to notice.
“Look!” The young boy turns the quarter in the air. “There’s only ever pennies in there. Sometimes nickels. I found an actual quarter!”
“Brilliant. Why don’t you run along now?”
“Aw, let me see.” Brooke holds her hand out and takes the coin. She studies it for a moment, smiles coyly at me when our eyes meet, then places it back in the boy’s hand. “That’s so cool. What’s your name?”
I gape at her.
Is she bloody serious? Does she not know how uncomfortable this is for me? What’s next? Asking the little bugger if he’d like to join us for lunch?
“Willie!” A woman yells, waving her hands in the air and running at me.
Jesus fuck! Can she see my cock from there?
Heart racing, I look down into my adequately concealed lap.
No. Everything’s good here. Nothing hanging out.
My pulse steadies. I suddenly remember how to breathe.
When the woman stops beside the boy and places a hand on his shoulder, I realize she was calling out for him, not announcing to everyone here that I was giving shows.
She gives me an apologetic look, then glares at the kid. “What have I told you about walking up to strangers? Come on. It’s time to go.” She tugs on his hand and leads him down the footpath.
Brooke laughs unapologetically as she settles back against the bench, then stares down at the bag covering my now flaccid cock. “How are things down there? Anything turning a shade of blue yet?”
“You’re the devil.” I move the bag and pick up my neglected roast beef sandwich. “Let’s spend the rest of your lunch-hour eating, shall we? Hands where I can see them.”
She picks up her fork and shoves a massive bite into her mouth. Her lips strain to close. “So good,” she says, although it sounds more like the noise a dying animal might make.
We laugh and eat under the midday sun, and I slip a little bit further under Brooke’s spell.
BROOKE
Camping . . .
Am I completely insane?
Not only do I have absolutely no idea why I agreed to this absurdity, I also have no clue how to pack for a weekend in the wilderness.
Outdoors. Zero climate control. According to my weather app, I’m looking at temperatures anywhere between forty and eighty-five degrees this weekend.
Say what? That’s basically my entire closet. Random Packing 101 right here.
I have jammed my oversized Victoria’s Secret duffle bag full of the oddest combination of clothing. Shorts, sweatshirt, bathing suit, a pair of snow pants just in case. I refuse to be unprepared for this. I even break another shopping rule and run out to the local sporting goods store to grab a few camping essentials, or at least what I classify as camping essentials.
Is there such a thing as too much bug-spray? Are road flares frowned upon at campsites? The answer is no and I don’t really give a fuck.
I have never been camping. I never wanted to be a girl scout. I have absolutely no desire to spend any time outside unless I’m lounging by a pool with a fruity umbrella drink.
There are outdoorsy people, and then there’s me.
So, why am I lugging this duffle out of my car and surrendering myself to Mother Nature for two days? Simple.
Orgasms. Mason’s mouth in general. That accent? Jesus. I can listen to him talk for hours. And . . . okay, if I’m being honest, it’s not terrible hanging out with him and doing things that don’t involve safe words.
He makes me laugh. A lot. The only other time men I’ve been interested in have made me laugh in the past is when they’ve dropped their pants.
That didn’t happen with Mason. That will never happen with Mason. I will take his cock very seriously.
And soon, if I have any say in the matter.
After locking up my car and making sure I have everything I think I’ll need, I adjust the strap on my shoulder and wait for a break in traffic.
It’s nearly six-thirty and the sky is beginning to warm with the approaching sunset. Reds and deep oranges color the clouds. The air is slowly dropping in temperature.
Thank God for the sweatshirt I packed. I may need it before we get to the campsite.
Across the street, Mason carries a large cooler around to the back of his car. He’s been loading up for the past ten minutes, not that I’ve been watching from the bakery window or anything.
Okay, I have. He’s excited, and it’s kind of cute to watch him step back and evaluate his packing job. Move things around. Scratch his head when the back door won’t latch shut and then pull everything out and start over.
Frustrated Mason King is surprisingly sexy, and I’m guessing not something people get to see very often, being Mr. Zen.
Traffic finally slows and I step off the curb. I get halfway across the street before Mason turns his head and notices me.
He looks fucking edible in dark gray warmups and a yellow graphic tee.