Till Summer Do Us Part(45)

So being immersed in a situation where sensuality and sexuality—which I have no experience with—are at the forefront of conversation makes my skin itch, especially since my fake husband seems to be very well versed in the matter.

“Ready?” Wilder says, knocking me out of my thoughts.

“Yeah,” I say as I down the rest of my orange juice and then dab my mouth with my napkin. Breakfast was delivered right on time, an assortment of pastries, coffee, tea, and yogurt parfaits. For a summer camp, it was pretty fancy. I was expecting pancakes and a vat of scrambled eggs to be cooked on a flat-top grill, only to be divvied out by the scoopful. But our tray was beautifully decorated with cloth napkins and a daisy in a vase and set in cotillion style.

Fancy.

“That apple Danish was really good,” he says as he opens the door to our cabin for us, the humid summer air already penetrating my skin.

“Yeah, I liked the cheese one. Kind of hope that’s something we get every day.”

“Hey, I was thinking the same thing.” He bumps my shoulder with his. “Look at us being friends.”

“Friends? I think that’s pushing it.”

“We shared a bed last night, Scottie. I think that makes us at least friends.”

“No, I think that makes you lucky.”

He gasps. “Holy shit, did you just make a joke?” He tugs on his ear. “Did I hear that right?”

“Can you not, please?” I try to hold back my smirk.

“I’m sorry, you just caught me off guard. I wasn’t expecting you to come out like that, acting all funny after a long night of you clinging to the edge of your bed, trying to stay as far away from me as possible.”

“I was not clinging to the side.”

“Scottie”—he gives me a look that says he knows better—“if you had levitation capabilities, I’m pretty sure you would have levitated next to the bed instead.”

“Well, excuse me for wanting to give you space.”

“You could have slept in my armpit, and I wouldn’t have cared,” he says.

“Oh, is that right? Well, I guess I’ll consider that for tonight.”

He chuckles. “Glad to hear it. Just don’t move a lot. I’m ticklish.”

As we approach the cabin, I say, “Okay, time to focus. Remember where we are at in our relationship at the moment.”

“Dramatically trying to find our way back to each other,” he answers.

“I don’t know why you used the term ‘dramatically,’ but yes, we’re not happy with each other. This is our low point, and from here, we climb.”

“Right.” He rubs his hands together. “This is what I’ve been waiting for.”

We reach the cabin, and I stop him. “What are you talking about? Do not go off script.”

“There is no script,” he counters.

“I mean, stick to what we know. Don’t start rambling on about things that you just decide to make up.”

“But that’s what improv is all about.”

I grip his shoulders and look him in the eyes. “Stay focused, Wilder. Please, for the love of God, stay focused.”

“I’m focused, dear.”

“Promise me.” I point at him.

“Promise,” he says with a smirk just as the cabin door opens and I spot Sanders.

Showtime.

Smiling, I turn toward him and say, “Morning.”

Standing in a pair of flannel pajama pants and a Jets shirt, he says, “Morning. Everything okay?”

“Yes,” I answer in a cheery voice, probably overplaying it a bit too much. “Just checking to make sure I don’t have anything in my teeth. Breakfast was delicious, by the way.” I turn to Wilder. “Everything, uh, good?” I flash him my teeth.

He squats down, playing the part, and takes a gander. But then to my horror, he tilts my head back farther, peels my lip up, and really gives them a good examination.

When he’s done, he sets me up straight and then says, “Clean, babe.”

I straighten out my shirt and try to telepathically warn him that such nonsense is not necessary.

“Well, if we’re all set, shall we?” Sanders gestures to the inside of the cabin.

In a cheery, nonplussed voice, Wilder says, “I think we shall.” And then we walk up toward the door, and as we pass Sanders, Wilder offers him a fist bump. “That Danish was fire.”

“What flavor did you have?”

“Apple,” Wilder answers.

“Wait until tomorrow when they bring out the cherry. Your life will be changed.”

Wilder rubs his stomach. “I look forward to it.”

Ignoring them, I make my way inside the cabin and then take a look around to get familiar with my surroundings. All I can say is…wow.

I’m stunned.

After seeing Sanders’s office in New York and the basketball presentation last night, I half expected to bear witness to an agglomeration of sports memorabilia with a roomful of trophies, basketball hoops as seats, and bleachers as a couch.

But this cabin…it’s…it’s normal.

There’s a comfortable-looking couch off to the left, a wingback chair to the right with an oak coffee table in between. A blue area rug breaks up all the wood and coincides with the blue checkered curtains that hang over the window. A small fridge is near the door, and a balcony in the back offers a view of the lake.