CREATIVE CORNER

“I love my brother. I love my brother. I love my brother.”  I muttered it like a prayer. A mantra. A desperate plea to the universe to give me strength as I stood outside his tent, drenched, freezing, and contemplating every single one of my life choices. The storm raged around me, wind whipping at my damp clothes, rain hammering down in an endless, merciless assault. The once-packed lot of hopeful wedding venue campers had scattered, abandoning their spots in search of shelter. A few stubborn holdouts remained—some huddled in their own tents, others curled under flimsy tarps, all of them smarter than I was. Because I Had made a whole scene about not needing help. I had declared Icould handle it on my own. I had refused his smug, overconfident offer to share his superior, well-prepared, definitely-dry tent. And now? Now, standing outside like a pathetic, shivering idiot, debating whether or not to eat my pride and ask for the one thing I really didn’t want to ask for. Help. Or, more specifically—help from him. I squeezed my eyes shut, took a breath, and slapped on the tent. Nothing. I slapped the fabric again, louder. “Hey.” Silence. My teeth chattered. “I know you hear me.” The tent zipper made a slow, lazy zzzzzzip before he peeked out, half-asleep, his stupidly handsome face rumpled with exhaustion. He blinked. Then smirked. “Well, well, well.” I clenched my jaw. “Don’t.” His grin widened. “What was that? I think the wind messed up my hearing.” I glared at him. “Let me in, asshole.” A beat. Then his brows shot up. “I’m sorry, what?” I huffed, rubbing my arms. “Ugh! Please don’t make this into a thing.” His smirk exploded into a full-on grin, all teeth. “Huh.” He tapped his chin, fake thoughtful. “That’s wild, because I distinctly recall you making this into a thing when—and I quote—‘I don’t need your help. I’m perfectly capable of waiting this out alone.’” I closed my eyes. “I hate you.” “No, no, let’s really dissect this,” he continued, delighted. “Because I remember when someone was very insistent about being independent. And now, all of a sudden—” “I hate you.” Too bad the sentiment was entirely ineffective when my teeth were chattering because of this stupid unpredictable Pacific Northwest weather.  I hate this place. I hate this town. I hate my life. But mostly,  I hate him. “—you’re here. At my tent. Freezing. Begging for entry.”  My  fists clench, fighting every instinct to drag him out into the rain. “I am not begging.” He crossed his arms, his stupid sexy dimple peeked out with his smirk. “Oh, trust me baby, you kinda are.” “Don’t call me baby. And I am not begging. Just move!” I snapped, pushing past him into the tent before I changed my mind. “But you beg so sweetly. I remember exactly just how you sound.” “Ugh—can you not? It’s not that deep—” I growled but then muttered “neither were you if I recall that lapse in judgement.” Luckily he either chose not to hear it or the momentum of practically collapsing onto his sleeping bag, my teeth still chattering, rainwater plopping against the roof of the tent distracted him. He zipped the flap shut, shaking his head as he settled back into his spot, looking far too pleased with himself. “So nice of you to join me. Bet, this isn’t a stupid tent now is it?” I exhaled sharply. “I swear to all the old gods and new, I will suffocate you in your sleep.” His chuckle, low and smug. “That’s fine. At least I’ll die warm and right.” He rubbed his multi-layered traditional outdoorsy gear he adopted with his sexy dark scruff over his perfect jaw, and mischievous brown amber eyes.  I wanted to murder him. I wanted to punch him. Mostly, though? I just wanted to stop freezing my tits off. I pulled at the damp fabric clinging to my body and groaned. “Ugh, my clothes are soaked.” He sighed, long-suffering. “I told you—” “Not a word,” I warned, peeling off my silk blouse. Granted, I should have thought about this before I unbuttoned the fabric from my cold, wet skin. Should have remembered I wasn’t alone in the tent. Because the second the fabric hit the ground, I felt the weight of his stare.  I looked down at my very sheer bra, that left nothing to surprise, or the light tawny hue of my nipples. Slowly, I looked up. Yep. Gawking. “Would you stop staring?” Ugh! Why were my nipples getting hard. “Be a gentleman and give me one of your layers.” “What?” He looked stupefied. “Oh my god.” I reached over and started to yank off his flannel shirt from his shoulders, arms, and unbelievably, he let me. I ignored his stare as slipped it on, buttoning in the warmth seeping into my skin. I removed the slacks next and slipped under the sleeping bag. “Stop staring.” With a rough voice he lied and said, “I’m not staring.” I huffed. “Oh my god. They’re just tits. Stop gawking like a pubescent teen.” His jaw ticked. “They’re not just tits. They’re your tits.” Lord help me. Rolling my eyes, I pinched the oversized shirt away from my chest, pretending my skin wasn’t heating up under his attention. “Yes. I’m aware but you’ve seen them before. It's not that serious.” That should’ve been the end of it. Except it wasn’t. Because he looked up and his eyes molten and it wasn’t from anger.  Defuse! Defuse!  But then, because I knew exactly what to say in this situation, I muttered, “Not like we had good sex or anything.” The silence was instant. Like even the storm outside had paused. Can people malfunction? Because he definitely was malfunctioning. His head snapped toward me so fast I worried about actual whiplash. His brow furrowed, perplexed he said in a low timbre, “What?” That's all for now!