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.
Fucking. Edible.
His hair is a blonde wavy mess, messier when he pushes a hand through it as he watches me. Both of us are in sneakers, which I had to run home for after he sent me a text this afternoon.
Mason: Your arse looks amazing in those heels. It also looks amazing in runners. That’s what you should be wearing this weekend. Lots of walking, gorgeous.
How did I forget about shoes? I remember floss and a nail file, but comfortable shoes? Not a priority.
After setting the cooler down on the back of the car, Mason jogs over and takes my duffle.
“Here. I’ll take that.” He slides the bag off my shoulder and lifts it with one hand, gauging the weight. His brows pull together as we move to the car. “A bit heavy, yeah? You pack for both of us?”
I hook a thumb behind me. “Oh, that’s just my lube. My clothes are in my other bag. Can you grab it?”
His face right now? Priceless.
Mouth falling open. Alarmed eyes shifting between the bag in his hand and my face. His lips pinch together after a few seconds of utter shock, and he fights a smile through a shake of his head. “Your lube? Jesus, Brooke. A bit of a wasted purchase, don’t you think?”
We stop at the back of the car. Mason moves a few things around to make room for my bag.