“What on earth is that thing?” she asked.
“It’s a portable, reusable, relatively safe and eco-friendly”—he valiantly ignored her snort—“campfire. If we want to put it out, we can just put the lid on again.”
“Seriously? And that works?”
“Sure. It’s science, or whatever. Want to toast some marshmallows?”
It was a juvenile, still probably illegal, and definitely unhygienic activity that belonged to the world of silly American films. “Yes please,” she said.
“Good. I lied about the s’mores thing, though. I don’t know what the fuck s’mores are.”
She snorted. “Neither do I.”
Reaching for his bag, he said, “I’ll open the marshmallows, you go and collect twigs to stick ’em on.”
She stared.
He stared back at her with a stressfully serious expression for two long seconds before he cracked, those catlike eyes creasing at the corners as he threw back his head and laughed. “Oh my God, Chloe. Relax. Look, I bought skewers.”
“Oh.” She pressed a hand to her chest. “I was really reconsidering this entire thing.”
“Camping?”
“Letting you put your tongue in my mouth again.”
“Shut up,” he grinned. “You’d always let me put my tongue in your mouth.”
“Maybe in secret moments of weakness,” she admitted. “Give me that. I want to put my own marshmallows on.”
“You sure? You don’t want the assistance of a marshmallow-skewering expert?”
She rolled her eyes and took the bag of marshmallows from him. “No. But speaking of that expertise—”
“This feels like a great time to make a joke about penetrating soft, sweet things.”
She ignored him. “—why are you so good at camping-type stuff?”
“Ah. Well.” He stared thoughtfully at the skewer in his hand, his hair falling over his face for a moment. The fingers of his free hand began to drum against his thigh and she wondered, with more than a little regret, how she’d managed to turn camping into a topic that made him nervous or unsettled or whatever it meant, precisely, when he got this way.
Biting her lip, she said hurriedly, “You don’t have to—”
“No, it’s okay.” He looked up at her with a smile, but it was a sad sort of smile. “Honestly, Chlo, it’s fine.” And then those drumming fingers stopped, and found hers, and now he was holding her hand instead. “I just got a little bit . . . ah, you know how I told you about my granddad who died?”
She nodded, feeling those silver rings against her skin.
“He used to take me places like this. All over. Not that often—maybe once or twice a year, when he had time off—but it adds up, yeah? We lived in the city and he was paranoid about air pollution and all that. He had this idea that spending time in nature every so often could . . . I don’t know, clean you out.” Red chuckled.
Chloe squeezed his hand, her marshmallows forgotten. “What was his name?”
“Leo.” Just the word curved Red’s mouth into a smile, and she was struck by an odd, sudden certainty that Redford Morgan’s near-constant cheer had come from one man in particular. Leo.
“He sounds wonderful,” she murmured.
“Yeah. He was. Sometimes I wonder . . .”
He trailed off, but she thought she knew what he was going to say. She knew, because she knew him—not just the achingly cool, charming, handsome man who was quick to joke and quicker to help, but the not-so-shiny parts beneath that formed the foundation of who he was. The parts that some people might look away from because they were a little less easy to swallow. The parts that called to her just as much as his sweet smiles. “You wonder if he’d be disappointed in you.” The way Red, as she’d realized over these past weeks, was disappointed in himself. “Because of whatever it was that happened to you in London.”
He turned to look at her so fast, his hair flew around his face like a flame. “I—London was—” He sighed, his grip on her hand tightening. “Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “Sorry. I don’t know why I brought this up. Did I bring this up? Look, have a marshmallow.”
“Red,” she whispered. “You don’t always have to be okay.” She leaned closer and pressed a kiss to his cheek. He was still for a moment.
But then he looked at her, and smiled, and murmured, “I know. But I am okay, with you.” The moment shimmered with something beautiful and delicate, and it wasn’t broken when he turned away. It lingered, fine and lovely, under the surface. He pushed a marshmallow onto her skewer, and when she complained, he popped one into her mouth, too. Then he loaded up his own and showed her exactly how close to hold them to the fire, and for how long.
Then, when her mouth was full of the first hot, sticky, melting bite, he caught her gaze and said in the gravelly voice that rolled right over her clit, “Now, in the name of camping, bad decisions, and your list, you and me are gonna play a game.”
Chapter Nineteen
Red watched as the sympathy left Chloe’s dark gaze, replaced by something hotter than the campfire. Her lips curled, that familiar, uneven smile so sexy he felt it in his chest—and his balls.
“What kind of game?” she asked. Her tongue snaked out to catch a dripping blob of marshmallow, and every inch of his body snapped to attention. He hadn’t thought this whole “toasted marshmallow” thing through. He hadn’t considered how fucking irresistible she’d look licking up gooey, white dessert, or how the light of the fire would make her skin glow like polished mahogany and her eyes light up like smoky amber. He hadn’t imagined something this innocent could make him want to suck sugar off her tongue and drag her into the tent.
He should’ve, though. He always wanted Chloe. In every possible way.
She was still waiting for a response, arching those winged eyebrows at him, so he cleared his throat and finally answered, “Twenty-one questions. It’s a time-honored camp tradition amongst people who’re trying to get into each other’s sleeping bags.”
She crossed her ankles and leaned closer, her shoulder bumping his. The simple touch shimmered through his core like a shot of molten gold. “I’m assuming you didn’t learn that from your granddad.”
He swallowed to clear the roughness in his throat. This whole experience was for her, and she seemed to be enjoying it, so he wasn’t going to grab her and make it all about his lust—at least, not yet. “I learned it the same place I learned about s’mores, smart-arse. You can’t deny, this game looks fun in films.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that. Isn’t it the game where a girl asks something useful like, What’s your favorite animal? and then a horny little monster—ahem, I mean a boy, uses his turn to ask if she’s ever had anal sex?”
Red’s lips twitched. “Maybe. Luckily I’m not a horny little monster”—lie—“so I’ll only be asking you very meaningful questions. But you can go first.”
She tapped her fingers against her lower lip. “I need more marshmallows to help me think.”