S'more of You (Summer Lovin' collection)(8)

All so I can be near Margot.

It’s worth every second of disorder, too, because she’s smiling at me in that conspiratorial way that makes me feel like a giant. Her cheek is outlined in the golden glow of the campfire, and she’s so excited, she’s squirming around on the log bench.

This is how it should be.

Margot happy. Me making it happen.

“Everyone quiet down,” I bark, turning in a circle to extinguish any excess chatting with a stern look. “Before we roast s’mores tonight, we have a special edition of story time. You know her, you love her. Give a round of applause to Counselor Margot, who will be helping me tell you the story of the purple gorilla.”

Margot hops to her feet and takes a sweeping bow to the tune of a hundred tiny, clapping hands, sidestepping twice until her shoulder is brushing my elbow.

“Once upon a time, a purple gorilla escaped from the zoo . . .”

Margot, pasting on a smug expression, puffs up her chest, eliciting giggles.

“But don’t let the purple fur fool you. This gorilla was fierce. And huge. He could stamp out the campfire with one big stomp.”

As I continue the story about the escaped gorilla who stalks a group of kids through the woods, Margot prowls around the campfire, hiding behind a few lucky kids, peeking out from behind them or loudly sniffing their hair. I’m so distracted, I forget my place in the story five separate times but eventually make it to the end. And if I was wondering whether or not Margot remembers this story from our camp days, I wonder no longer when she play-pounces on one of the girls, tickling her at the exact moment I reach the punchline.

“‘Tag,’ the purple gorilla shouted at the campers. ‘You’re it.’”

Gasps mingle with laughter, the tension ebbing from our audience.

“See? I didn’t want to eat anyone!” Margot says in a voice reminiscent of Tarzan. “I just wanted to play tag!”

I hold out my hand to her, my chest flip-flopping when she takes it.

Okay. I actually think I might have salvaged the day with Margot. She was pissed at me earlier, but she couldn’t seem happier with me after improvised story time. Later, when everyone is settled in for the night, I’ll ask her on a walk so we can have an honest conversation. I need to get to the bottom of whether she has genuine feelings for me or if our kiss in the laundry hut was yet another way to mess with me.

I lift our joined grip toward the night sky. “One more round of applause for our purple gorilla.” She beams at the response, and it’s time for me to let go of her hand, but I don’t. I might even tug her a little closer. “Sit tight while we pass out ingredients for s’mores. Remember, we do this youngest cabin to oldest—”

One of my campers—Killian—tugs on my sleeve, interrupting me. “You’re still showing us your Eagle Scout badges tonight, right, Dean? Greg told me to ask you.”

“Dude!” complains Greg from his seat on the log, shrinking into himself.

“Uh, yes. I’ll show you guys the badges. Later, though.”

“I’d love to see them too,” Margot says a little hesitantly.

“Uh-uh. Not her, right?” Killian says, leaning past me to look at Margot before sending me a clumsy wink. “She’s not allowed to see the badges, in case she sets them on fire or something. Right, Dean?”

Oh no.

The smile melts off Margot’s face, her gaze bouncing between me and Killian.

“Killian, let’s talk about the badges later—”

“Dean said you’re a catastrophe waiting to happen.” Killian laughs, clearly believing that Margot is going to join in and laugh at herself. Instead, she’s staring into the campfire, the flames illuminating the gathering moisture in her eyes.

“Margot, I said that yesterday morning,” I say. “It was a dumb joke.”

“Nope,” Killian says, shaking his head. “You said, ‘This is not a joke.’”

“Killian,” I say through my teeth. “Go sit down.”

Margot slips her hand out of mine, and my stomach plummets. “I-I have to run back to the cabin for something.” She’s not making eye contact with me. This is bad. “Could I have my bag back? The key is in there.”

“I didn’t mean it. You’re the furthest thing from a catastrophe.”

“Well. Maybe not the furthest thing.” She laughs, but her voice is getting thicker. Oh Jesus, I know that burr in her throat. She’s getting ready to cry. I made this beautiful girl cry. What the hell is wrong with me? “I need my bag.”

“Let me walk with you.”

“No, thank you.” She makes a grab for the drawstring bag, and this time, I have no choice but to let her take it. A few minutes ago, she was lively and mischievous. Now, she leaves the glow of the campfire circle with her head down. It would take very little encouragement to throw myself into the flames about now. I’d probably suffer less than I am right now, knowing she believes I called her a catastrophe.

“Where did Margs go?” asks Isabel, who saunters up beside me, hands on hips. “There’s about to be a lot of sticky fingers up in here, and she’s got the Wet Naps.”

“I think she’s upset. With me.” My voice sounds like a hard block of cheese being grated. “No, I know she is. I called her a catastrophe.”