Page 106 of River & Rue

“They were probably glad to be rid of us. Maya said—” I choke, stiffening, and finish lamely, “something about us being annoying.”

“Hmm. I wonder if her ‘something’ was anything like what Dan told me yesterday, which is that everyone’s sick of our unresolved sexual tension.”

My stomach swoops, robbing the breath from my voice. “Maybe.”

River squeezes my neck one more time, then releases me. I turn, expecting to see his smile, but he’s frowning at the sign ahead of us. The tip of his tongue glides across his lower lip before he nibbles on the lush slope.

A vivid memory of what his mouth can do throws gasoline on the flames inside me. Under the pretense of shifting my weight, I squeeze my thighs together—and that, of course, is when his lips curve into a familiar smirk.

My eyes fly to his. In the ambient light of the forest, they’re a smoldering bronze.

“What are you thinking about?” he croons.

My throat dries, my mind blanking—and for the first time ever, my stomach comes to my rescue, growling loudly.

“Food,” I blurt.

He grins and pulls a packet of trail mix from his pocket, tearing it open before handing it to me.

“At least we have a tent, right? It’s only three miles to the campground. There’s bound to be one of those information kiosks with maps. If not, we can borrow one from someone and take a photo of it.”

“What if no one’s there?” I ask between mouthfuls.

“It’s summer in one of the most popular national parks in the country—there will definitely be people. Chances of finding an empty site are probably nil, but unless they’re assholes, they’ll let us set up for one night.”

I crunch more cashews, muttering, “Ah, the classic one-bed trope.”

“What?”

My head jerks up. “What?”

A smile heats his eyes. “Nice try, but I heard you. One question—does it count if it’s a tent, not a bed?”

Ignoring the renewed throbbing between my legs, I shrug a shoulder. “Sure, but it only really counts if we have to share a sleeping bag, and since we have two… no dice.”

“I have a feeling that won’t be much of an obstacle for us.”

I nearly asphyxiate on a dried cranberry. Not bothering to hide his amusement, River offers his water bottle. I take a quick sip and hand it back.

“Thanks. Clump of cranberries went down the wrong pipe.”

His dimple peeks at me through six days’ worth of stubble, and I try really, really hard not to think about how his jaw would feel scraping my inner thighs. Or how good he looks with facial hair. Or how badly I want to kiss him.

He makes a low, rough sound. “You have to stop looking at me like that.”

“Or what?” I whisper.

“Or we’re not making it three miles, much less three days.”

A few seconds later, River chuckles and taps my chin. Flushing, I close my gaping mouth. His smile devilish in the half-light, he takes my hand and guides us onto the trail.

“Next stop, Ghostwood Creek.”

The creek is beautiful, the water shallow and clear, gurgling over pebbles and around small boulders. Tiny fish dart along the bottom, fins flapping fast in the current as they hunt for food in patches of moss.

The campground itself is small, a somewhat leveled area backed by a copse of trees. There’s a fire barrel, a stump to sit on, and space for two tents, three at the most.

And it’s completely empty.