Backwoods. Jill Sorenson

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      It was easy for her to be upbeat; she was perfect.

      When they reached the creek, he handed her the water bag. “I’m sorry,” he said, his stomach churning.

      She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tight. He was only an inch or two taller than her, so their bodies lined up in a pleasing way. “It’s okay,” she said, releasing him. “You were upset.”

      “Do you hate my mom?”

      “No, I like her. I shouldn’t have made that karma comment. It was mean.”

      He watched her nibble her lower lip, her blue eyes full of regret. Even Brooke said bitchy things in the heat of the moment.

      “Do you really think they’ll split up?” she asked.

      “I don’t know.” It was going to suck either way. Ray was a jerk, but Leo’s mom loved him.

      “If they do, will you stay in touch with me?”

      “Of course.”

      “Good,” she said, smiling. “I don’t want to lose my only brother.”

      Brother. Right.

      She bent to fill up the water bag. It filtered inside the collapsible pouch and came out a tube at the bottom, ready to drink. He carried the heavy bag back to camp and hung it on the short tree branch Brooke pointed out. Then she fired up the camp stove and put a pot of water on to boil. Leo was starving, so he hoped the freeze-dried dinners were edible.

      “Help me set up the tents,” his dad said.

      Leo rose with reluctance, not interested in another lecture. His dad was pretending to be a concerned parent for Abby’s benefit, but he didn’t really care. The Storm had always been more focused on sports and professional success.

      Leo would never be good enough to suit him; he’d given up trying a long time ago.

      His dad studied the instructions and started putting poles together, speaking to Leo only when necessary. The tents were compact and low to the ground, designed for maximum comfort in minimal space. Leo wasn’t looking forward to sharing such tight quarters with someone who could barely tolerate him.

      “Your mother didn’t want to tell you,” his dad said in a low voice. “She didn’t think you’d understand.”

      “Did you cheat on her, too?”

      “No,” he said, his brows rising. “Never.”

      Leo wished they’d talked about this a long time ago. Maybe it wouldn’t have made a difference. He’d never forgive his dad for treating him like a disappointment. But knowing this small truth changed Leo’s feelings about him.

      Once the tents were secure, his dad brought the gear inside and left Leo alone with his thoughts. Brooke wandered over to help him get situated. She showed him how to use the air valve to inflate the sleeping pads.

      “Do you think they’ll let us sleep together?” she asked.

      He laid out his sleeping pad. “No.”

      “Why not?”

      It was a silly question, so he started blowing into the valve.

      “Then my mom could sleep with your dad.”

      Ugh. He didn’t know which was worse, Brooke’s lack of sexual self-awareness or her weird fascination with their parents hooking up.

      “They’d make a cute couple. I like your dad.”

      “If you like him so much, why don’t you sleep with him?”

      She made a horrified face. “Ew, Leo! No.”

      He finished inflating his sleeping pad, smiling a little. Then he watched her blow into the valve on her sleeping pad with more interest than was appropriate.

      Brooke tempted and teased him on a regular basis. She did it the same way she did everything, with unfiltered joie de vivre. Flirting was as natural as breathing to her. Maybe she toyed with him because he was safe. They were comfortable together. There was no possibility of a relationship. She meant no harm, but she wasn’t so oblivious that she didn’t notice his reactions to her. He’d gotten an erection once when she’d climbed on top of him. She’d been more amused than embarrassed, tickling him until it went away.

      He knew she wasn’t a virgin. She’d told him all about her first time, and how her douchebag boyfriend hadn’t bothered to be gentle. He assumed she’d had other, hopefully better, experiences since then. But it was clear that she was still innocent in many ways. She had no clue how much he wanted her. Sometimes that made him angry. Sometimes he wasn’t in the mood for playful wrestling and blue balls.

      He couldn’t stay angry, though. Being mad at her for flirting was like being mad at her for being beautiful, or being mad at the sun for shining. If he needed space, he could put distance between them. But he never did. Because he enjoyed the attention. God help him, he liked her rubbing on him.

      They’d never discussed what Leo had done at Mavericks. Leo wasn’t sure she even remembered it. She’d been high as a kite, thanks to him.

      They climbed out of the tent and pulled on jackets. The sun had disappeared on the horizon, bringing the chill of dusk. Abby and his dad were sitting on the log by the fire pit. While Brooke added boiling water to four meal packages, letting them steep for a few minutes, Leo cased the perimeter of the campsite.

      He’d lied to his dad about the pot. It was still in his backpack.

      Leo wasn’t worried about the hunters coming after them. His dad had made a good point about the poached venison. Even so, the remoteness of their location left them vulnerable. As he stared into the dark recesses of the forest, he couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. Troubled, he returned to the others.

      There was nowhere to sit except on the fallen log in front of the empty fire pit. Leo took a space next to Abby. He didn’t make eye contact with her. He was embarrassed by his contentious relationship with his father. Brooke’s sordid tale about his mother and her father getting busy in the back office didn’t help.

      Brooke put another pot of water on to boil, humming a cheery tune. She was wearing a fluorescent yellow windbreaker and a blue knit beanie with her cutoff shorts and hiking boots. Her legs were about a mile long, smooth and tanned.

      Leo hazarded a glance at Abby. She’d put on a gray fleece pullover to ward off the chill. She was pretty, and not that old. His friends would call her a “milf.” He hated it when they said that about his mom.

      “Brooke tells me you’re a student at Humboldt,” Abby said.

      “Yeah,” he said. “I like it there.”

      “Do you have a major?”

      “International Studies.”

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