Page 7

“Yes, Hilly,” they all chimed.
Huh. Not Ms. Whatever, but Hilly. Apparently, the woman was friendly with her young employees; something she had yet to afford Cisco.
He’d see about that.
“What’s the policy on the younger campers having phones?” he asked, just to be included in the conversation.
“Not allowed,” Hilly answered decisively. “They’ll all be disconnected from social media of every kind during their stay. A lot of what these kids find on-line gives them warped views of their peers, which leads to a subversion of their self-esteem. Those are negative emotions we try to eliminate here at camp. Our job is to build confidence, trust, and optimism in our young campers, which we can’t do if they continually get negative reinforcement from their ever-present devices.”
“Admirable,” Cisco agreed.
He’d never thought about the phone being anything other than a way to keep up with current news, play music, and find restaurants, but he guessed kids weren’t good at keeping to boundaries with what they looked up, or groups they joined.
Cisco had his hard and fast limits.
He never trolled the internet or dating sites for women. Ever. He didn’t want any female getting the idea that he was looking for “the one”, which a profile might have them assuming. Nope. His preferred method of meeting his one-and-dones were always face to face; pick-ups where his agenda could be spelled out in person; no second guessing allowed. That way, there were no misunderstandings or hurt feelings when he tugged on his pants and skedaddled directly following a fuck.
But why was he thinking about fucking right now?
Uh, right. The woman who seemed oblivious to his charms was tweaking his libido.
He bit the inside of his cheek to stop thinking about her naked, and stood next to Hilly as they watched the kids file out. The second they were gone, the air once again filled with tension, and—if he had to put a name to it—disdain from his reluctant companion.
Which was beginning to bug the crap out of him.
What was this woman’s problem? Clearly, she had a stick-up-her-ass where he was concerned, but he couldn’t for the life of him figure out why. Sometimes, when an immediate coldness consumed someone he met, Cisco assumed it was because the caramel color of his skin wasn’t acceptable to the person giving him pissy vibes. But he’d noticed that at least half of Hilly’s counselors—whom he assumed she’d hired—had pigmentation as dark, if not darker, than his.
Puzzling.
But Cisco loved a challenge, and he determined then and there that his new favorite pastime would be getting Hilly to drop her sour demeanor. “So. What are you thinking?” he prodded. “Schedule-wise, that is.”
“Oh. Right.”
It looked like he’d pulled her head out of some deep hole, and briefly he wondered what might be in that yawning pit of angst. But when she turned to him with purpose and looked at him directly for the first time, he was immediately lost in her deep, sapphire blue eyes, and couldn’t remember what he’d been thinking.
“Why don’t we have a seat at one of the dining tables, and we can figure out your schedule.”
Right. Schedule.
No, actually. He’d been perseverating on her unusual aloofness.
She swiftly shifted her gaze from his as if sensing his scrutiny, and purposely shut him down. “Over here.”
Cisco bit back a grin, figuring he’d just scored some kind of point, and followed her to a table where they both pulled out chairs and sat.
Game on.
“So,” she coughed, “your chief said you’d be available two days each week for the duration of the summer. What hours are you thinking will work best for you?”
“I should tailor my schedule to yours,” Cisco told her diplomatically. “My PD shift is seven to three, Monday thru Friday.” He’d never get tired of saying that. It almost seemed like a dream. “I’m sure you have your daily agenda already figured out, so within those parameters, I’m all yours whenever and wherever you want me.”
Had his innocent question caused the slight blush that suddenly covered Ms. Hilly’s pretty freckled nose?
Yes! She wasn’t as unaffected by him as she pretended.
She ducked her pert proboscis under her red curls and reached for a folder that was lying on top of the table she’d led him to. “Here’s our camp schedule,” she told him, passing him a sheet off the top.
He perused the timetable as she went over it, her fluster subsiding as she got down to business.