“I was eight. Give me a break.”
“Uh-huh.” Still smirking. What a sexy jerk.
The rest of the morning passes easily. I downsize my belongings to an overnight bag and further downsize my toiletries bag. Thankfully, the roughing-it portion won’t be too terrible. Dax divulged that we’re sleeping in the field out back, the cabin within sight.
“Isn’t that silly?” I ask as I pack food in a cooler. It’s sufficiently stuffed with snacks and drinks for tonight.
“What?”
“To camp mere yards from your cabin.”
“Clearly you don’t recall the majesty of the outdoors from your camping trip.”
“Remember the part where I told you I was with my brother, Tad? He sort of sucks the majesty out of everything.”
With a deep chuckle, Dax asks, “Ready?”
“Ready.”
He snags a rather slouchy-looking backpack off the kitchen table—the entirety of his needs fit in there—and then grabs my weightier bag. It was as downsized as I could manage. I did my best.
The afternoon sun was as warm as promised, drying the damp blades of grass from this morning. Even so, the shaded trail behind the cabin is on the soggy side, squishy under the Jeep’s tires. When we arrive at the clearing, the ground is much firmer. I pause to admire the sun-soaked field, the tall grass, the wildflowers. It’s beautiful.
Oh, and I was wrong about Dax’s belongings fitting in that slouchy backpack. The back of his Jeep is filled with sleeping bags and tent accoutrements, and he even brought firewood that he’d hauled from the covered porch for the fire he plans on starting.
We park and I hop out. Dax took the top and the doors off. He strolls to a burned-out circle where the grass hasn’t grown, a few large logs arranged around it like seats. “Looks like we’re not the first ones to have this idea. Perfect spot for a fire.”
Already the prospect of sitting at a campfire, this time across from Dax, sounds like a hell of a lot more fun than it was when I was eight. That’s a big statement considering that when I was eight, I thought roasting marshmallows was as good as life could get. Even now I silently wonder if Dax could run a close second to a perfectly roasted marshmallow.
Guess I’ll find out.
By dinnertime he’s built a fire and set up a rack for cooking over the low flames. He grills the fish that he caught and cleaned—color me impressed—which have been bathing in my magical mojito marinade. I tell him as much, admiring the line of his strong body as he tends to our dinner with a metal spatula.
“Magical Mojito Marinade sounds like my next menu item.”
“Really?” Careful excitement laces every letter of the word. He pauses in his flipping to regard me curiously.
“Told you that you were hired. Still don’t believe me?”
“Well, you haven’t tasted it yet. You might not want to include it on your menu.” There’s plenty of space on the log next to him, so I sit. The moment my butt hits bark, he leans close.
“I haven’t had anything of yours in my mouth I didn’t enjoy immensely.” His lips brush the shell of my ear when he growls, “Anything.”
Don’t mind me while I excuse myself for a cold shower.
He finishes the grilling and I busy myself setting the “table,” which is a blanket spread out on the bed of his Jeep. I set out a few extra-thick paper plates and bamboo cutlery, and find an empty beer bottle that, a few wildflowers later, makes the perfect vase.
I’m stepping back to admire my handiwork when Dax sets a plate holding our grilled fish next to our plates.
“Is that salsa?” he asks of the bowl of mango relish I whipped up this morning.
“Close enough.” I point to another dish. “That’s red cabbage slaw with quick-pickled jalapeños. And if you give me thirty seconds, I can whip up fresh guacamole.”
“I was right,” he tells me as I split a few avocados and mash in red onion, cilantro, lime juice, and jalapeños. “You don’t know how to camp. This is fancy.”
I peek up at him as he lifts the beer-bottle vase. He’s not complaining, though. There’s a difference between complaining and being impressed. Dax Vaughn, I’m learning, is continually impressed with me. I’m embarrassed to admit that whenever I’m with him my pride-heavy chest swells to embarrassing proportions. His words of encouragement, even his teasing compliments, fill a deep, empty well inside of me.
We settle on the back of the Jeep to eat. I accept his offering of a light beer, tapping the can against his and enjoying a long, cold sip. Then we dig into some of the best mojito fish tacos I’ve ever made.
“These are good,” he says after he polishes off one taco and starts on the second.
He’s not kidding. The mojito marinade is sweet and citrusy, the slaw is tangy and crisp, and the mango relish is spicy and verdant. Add a dollop of two-minute guacamole, and our meal upgrades to phenomenal.
“We’re a good team.” I polish off another taco. “Usually I make this with mahimahi.”
“Dolphin,” he corrects. I scowl. He lifts his third taco. “Dolphin the fish, not dolphin the mammal. Hence the term mahimahi, or else everyone would lose their shit.”
“A little insider restaurateur knowledge.”
“Free of charge,” he says around a mouthful. He shovels in the rest while I take a dainty bite. I admire the way he eats. I know he’s enjoying it, and watching Dax enjoy my recipe is akin to watching him enjoy anything. It fills me with more pleasure than it should.
“I want it,” he says.
When I look up at him, he’s guzzling his beer and pointing at my remaining taco. I promptly lift the plate and offer it.
“Not the taco, Princess.” He crumples the beer can and sets it aside. “The recipe. How much for that one?”
“Like I told you before, I’m not selling you anything. You can have it.”
“And like I told you before, I’m not taking anything. I’m buying it.”
“Dax.”
“You’re worth it. Hasn’t anyone told you that before?”
Just you, I think to myself.
Chapter 16
Becca
Is it bad that I feel like purring?
Because it feels like something I shouldn’t let myself do—accept a compliment and roll around in its decadence.
I shrug off his comment, but in true Dax fashion, he’s not interested in anything on the surface. Which is interesting in and of itself.
“You are, you know. Worth it.” He’s serious, and scowling. “Can’t get over the idea that you don’t believe your ideas have value. Why is that?”
“I can’t get over the idea that you feel the need to pry.” It’s out of my mouth before I can stop it.
We’re a few hours from sunset. This feels like an after-hours conversation. Yet here we sit, in the sun-dappled shade under a tree, having this talk. I eat a sliver of red cabbage off my taco that I’m too full to finish.
“You’re asking me to share something really personal,” I confess. “To admit the genesis of why sitting here with you makes me jumpy.” I offer him my plate again. “Take it. I’m stuffed, and I want to finish my beer.”