Thank you, sweet baby Jesus.
We climb out of the Jeep, and my legs weep in relief as I stretch them. When I walk around to Miles’s side of the vehicle, his arms are raised over his head and he’s stretching his back, revealing a sexy sliver of golden-brown skin that leaves my mouth drier than the Sahara.
FML.
I never should have agreed to this stupid bet.
It’s like an exercise in masochism.
Why yes, Lucy, why not spend two weeks trapped in the world’s smallest camper with the guy you’re crushing on? What could possibly be more fun than that?
Right. Losing the bet and going back to work at Triada, where I can obsess over said crush twenty-four seven.
I tear my gaze from Miles’s sculpted abdomen and survey the campsite. It’s got everything we’ll need. A large grassy lot, a stone firepit, a well-worn picnic table, and hookups for the RV.
And, most importantly, space to breathe—something I need desperately after being cooped up in the Jeep with Miles all day.
Ten minutes later, we’ve got the Airstream stabilized and chocked.
“Ready for a tour of your new home?” I ask, quickly adding, “Temporary, as it’s sure to be.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He gestures to the open door. “Lead the way, you little smartass.”
I flash him a triumphant smile and scramble up the steps.
Miles follows close on my heels. He stops just inside the door, head barely clearing the low ceiling. If he were any taller, he’d have to stoop.
Were men shorter in the seventies?
One look at his face and I sweep the thought aside. Judging by his pained expression, I’m one step closer to winning the bet.
“Welcome home!” I spread my arms wide. Or, as wide as I can in the cozy living space.
I’d been nervous about Miles’s reaction to the outdated RV. The guy is a freaking billionaire, after all. And Tallulah—that’s what Gran calls the travel trailer—is a far cry from the lovingly restored Airstreams featured on Airbnb. There are no bougie appliances. No ultra-cushy pillows with serene patterns. And definitely no cutesy, thematic decor.
Unless you consider seventies kitsch a theme.
“So, this is tiny living,” he finally says, voice carefully neutral. “Nice.”
“You’re not claustrophobic, are you?” I ask with a touch too much enthusiasm.
“Not as far as I know.” He laughs quietly, the corner of his mouth curving in a sexy half smile. “Sorry to disappoint.”
“A girl can hope.” I shrug. “The good news is that this will be a quick tour.”
I walk him through the floorplan and review the safety precautions for travel days.
It only takes a few minutes, since the camper is smaller than my college dorm room.
The front end is taken up by a compact seating area made from foam cushions covered with a horrific green-and-gold floral print and a foldout table. On the left side of the trailer is the kitchenette, which features the world’s smallest, greenest set of appliances and a stainless-steel sink just large enough to hold a plate. On the right side of the trailer, there’s another delightful floral couch, which unfolds into a double bed, and at the back there are two small wardrobes for storage, and, of course, the bathroom. It’s pink, has questionable plumbing, and—
Dios mío.I’m going to be sharing a bathroom with Miles. My naked body is going to be in the same shower as his naked body. And every time I use the toilet, he’ll be sitting like five feet away. Listening to every sound.
My cheeks heat at the prospect.
I’m definitely going to need to grow a bigger bladder. Or reduce my coffee intake. Those are my only options.
Carajo.
