Page 83 of I Think He Knows
“Don’t overthink it,” he says quietly. “Just do whatyouwant to do. Don’t worry about anyone else.”
In this moment, in Carter’s arms, I’m right where I want to be.
I don’t want to leave, don’t want to go anywhere else.
So I don’t.
* * *
Ow.
No, seriously, ouch.
What the frick am I lying on?
An exploratory pat confirms that I’ve been sleeping on a rock. I shift lightly on what is now a very flat air mattress and rub my back, opening my eyes. I’m surprised to find that the tent is empty, save for me, my aching back, and what is sure to be a very unattractive bedhead of hair.
This is the second time in two weeks that I’ve had the luxury of “sleeping in” (AKA not being woken up by an alarm set to an ungodly hour or by Legs jumping on my bed in the morning wanting pancakes). Being fake engaged is working wonders for my sleep schedule, apparently. I have no idea how Carter managed to sneak out of here, but I must say that waking up alone in a tent with a jagged little rock digging into my back is definitely not how I imagined this morning going.
Poor Carter, sleeping on a totally deflated air mattress after so many nights on my uncomfortable couch. I should probably offer him a massage. Mmm, I shoulddefinitelyoffer him a massage.
I close my eyes and rest my head on the pillow for a moment more, remembering the warmth of Carter’s strong, muscled body next to mine as we drifted off to sleep last night. Unlike our last sleepover a couple of weeks ago, there was cuddling this time. And despite the faulty mattress and the rock in my spine, I slept like a baby snuggled up next to the literal man of my dreams.
Outside the tent, I hear a shout and a smattering of excited, high-pitched voices. Breakfast is clearly underway by the picnic tables currently doubling as the campout’s dining area.
Is Carter flipping pancakes again, I wonder?
And can I stealthily sneak to the bathrooms to freshen up before I make my appearance?
And oh my gosh, speaking of appearances, how am I going to explain my being here?! I wasn’t meant to be an actual participant of the daddy daughter campout. Which means that my stepping out of Carter’s tent is going to look like… a walk of shame.
A walk of freaking shame.
At a children’s campout.
Holy freaking moly, Mona is going to have an aneurysm.
With a strange, crab-like scramble, I get myself off the air mattress and over to the door of the tent. All I have to do is get out of here, leg it to the bathrooms unnoticed, and then come strolling over to breakfast all casual, like I turned up only a moment ago. In the same clothes that I was wearing last night. Without brushing my hair. Or teeth.
Oh, frick.
I unzip the tent and stumble out into the blazing sunshine. Unfortunately, I attempt my getaway before getting my bearings, and so I promptly run into the tent next door. Which caves in at the side, resulting in me effectively squishing the sleeping person inside.
“Ouch!” comes a startled yelp from within.
“Sorry, sorry!” I cry, leaping to my feet and taking off in the other direction. The person inside the tent was clearly male, and I am not sticking around to find out if I just assaulted Officer Lance McCreary.
By the time I make it out of the bathrooms (looking even more like I was dragged through a hedge backwards than usual, but unable to do anything about that unfortunate little fact), breakfast is over, the food wrapped up and cleared away. Volunteer moms and bleary-eyed dads sip on coffee while sitting around a firepit, and the girls are over at the baseball diamond…
Where Carter is pitching for them.
Be still, my heart.
I draw in a breath as I watch. He throws a softball for each kiddo, laughing and cheering the girls on when they swing and make contact with the ball, or encouraging them gently when they don’t. And ho-ly is he a sight to behold in the cool, clear light of morning. Dressed in all black: a tee that’sjustsnug enough, shorts, baseball cap, and sunglasses. The dark outfit enhances his golden tanned skin.
He looks like a literal tall drink of water that I’m thirsting for so freaking bad.
Pedro Pascal better hope there are no cameras around, because if pictures of this scene end up online, the internet will officially have a new favorite daddy.