LYRE
Watching my camper leave without me is a strange feeling. I'm more attached to it than entire castles I've had built in the past.
Every girl dreams of a castle.
It just turns out my favorite one is shaped like a box and gets dragged behind a truck.
A warm weight settles against my waist, and something inside me twitches, instinctively repulsed by any form of casual, possessive affection.
The offending appendage wrapped around my waist is large and tanned. A working hand. A fighter's hand. A hand with no business settling on my waist like it belongs there.
"You okay?" Aaron murmurs, leaning down so his breath is hot against my ear.
"That depends. Are you particularly attached to this hand?"
He pulls back immediately, the warmth vanishing.
Smart.
"I was just checking on you," he says, keeping a careful half-an-arm's-length distance. "You seem worried."
