Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 94883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
“Valid,” I say, echoing his groan as I sit up, my spine protesting every inch of the way. “Okay, yeah. Now that you mention it, my back has been happier.”
“See? I’m right,” he says. “I’m always right.” He exhales a heavy sigh. “It’s my cross to bear.”
Rolling my eyes, I give his arm a playful shove. “Okay, Mr. Right, let’s free the political prisoner before he organizes a revolt.”
Parker bobs his brows. “Mr. Right, huh? I knew you’d come around, sooner or later.”
Even yesterday, the teasing words might have made me twitchy, but now I simply roll my eyes again, laughing as I insist, “Will you just get out of the truck, already? I’m tired of wet pajamas and I need to pee.”
“And it’s already getting nasty in here,” he agrees, scooting to the end of the bed. “Why does summer have to be so hot first thing in the morning, Makena? It’s aggressive.”
He’s right. Outside, the air is already thick with humidity, promising another scorcher.
But that’s okay.
We’ll be in the air-conditioned truck most of the day, and then…
I can’t think too much about “then,” or the chances I’ll be able to stay focused on getting out of here before the sun bakes our brains will be slim to none.
Cleanup is quick and surprisingly fun. Thankfully, both our tote bags are mostly dry, and we take turns in the communal bathhouses, still deserted at this early hour. I change into a sundress, run frizz-easing cream through my chaotic hair, and set about helping strip the soggy sheets off the bed.
Once we’ve brought some semblance of order to our gear, Parker totes the destroyed air mattress to a nearby dumpster, while I mop up the truck bed with the campground rental towels.
Afterward, I make coffee, while he deals with the damp sheets, doing a little dance to the bossa nova music playing on his phone as he hangs them on the line.
For a man in a knee brace, his hips don’t lie.
Who knew khaki shorts could be so sexy?
But honestly, with an ass like Parker’s, everything he wears is sexy.
“Stop objectifying me,” he says without turning around.
“Stop having such a nice ass,” I shoot back.
“Can’t. It’s genetic. Skipped my dad, but you should have seen my grandad cut it up on the dance floor back in the day.”
“I’m good, thanks. Our age gap is about as much as I can handle.”
The family camping next to us watches our blanket-hanging banter with amusement. Their baby flails an arm at me from his blanket, where he’s already busy with his toys and a chunk of banana he’s smeared over his face.
I wave back, making him giggle.
Aw, babies.
They’re cute. I don’t want one, but they’re precious, and I love being an aunty to Elly’s little girl. Still, I know not wanting kids is the exception, not the rule, especially in the South.
Parker probably wants a huge family.
The thought is sobering, and probably another reason I should have him drop me off at the bus station on his way to Mobile—do not pass go, do not allow him to deliver multiple, potentially life-changing orgasms, or let him finish making me fall in love with him.
If the sex is as good as I’m anticipating, it could be the straw that breaks the love camel’s back, and that could be tragic for both of us if he wants a family and I’m determined to keep my uterus out of the reproduction game. For once in my life, I should do the responsible thing first, instead of adjusting course later, when it becomes clear I never should have started banging the man I’m currently banging.
So, when I deliver Parker’s coffee to our faded picnic table, I pull in a bracing breath and confess, “That baby is adorable, but I don’t want kids. At all. Full stop. No room for negotiation. I love them, but I don’t want them. It just doesn’t feel like part of my journey this time around. Maybe another incarnation, but not now.”
Parker nods, looking remarkably unfazed. “Okay. Good to know.”
I hover beside him, waiting for more. But he just sips his coffee and glances back at his phone. “Looks like it’s going to be a little cooler in Mobile, thank Christ. My ball deodorant can only do so much.”
“That’s all you have to say?” I ask.
He glances up, taking another sip. “About my balls? At the moment. Yes.”
I prop a hand on my hip. “No, asshole. About babies. I was serious.”
“I realize that. The other day, after we hung out with Luis, I was thinking kids could be fun, but I’m also cool with no kids. It’s not something I’m super passionate about one way or another.”
I point a finger at his chest. “And if you’re not passionate about kids, you shouldn’t have any. Kids are a huge, life-long, all-encompassing commitment.”