Page 23 of The Dating Ban (Mind the Corbin Brothers #1)

Indoor Survival Queen

Ivy

The instructions claim it’s “quick-pitch” and “intuitive to assemble”—phrases I now suspect were written by someone with a very dark sense of humour.

Dressed in my yoga pants and an old T-shirt that’s clinging to me in ways no fabric should, I wipe sweat from my forehead and give it another go.

Step One: Lay out the tent

Easy enough. I shake out the fabric, spreading it over my floor. It immediately tries to refold itself into a wrinkled mess. I flatten it again, eyeing the pieces.

Step Two: Assemble the poles and insert into the pins

I frown at the two long, bendy, black fibreglass poles that seem to have a life of their own. After a brief wrestling match, I manage to slot them together, feeling vaguely accomplished.

Now, the pins.

I glance at the tent. There are no pins… although I am not sure what these pins are supposed to look like.

I consult the instructions again. Insert the poles into the external pin and ring system.

What the fuck?

I flip the paper upside down, as if that will suddenly make it clearer. It does not.

Right. Guessing it is.

I try threading a pole through the small fabric loops, but that doesn’t seem right. The whole thing flops over, nearly dragging two gnomes off my coffee table.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” I shout.

After some trial and error (and only one minor trip over a stray guy rope), I realise the poles need to arch. When I finally manage to slot them into the metal pins at the base, the tent suddenly springs up, its shape coming together in a way that feels a little bit like magic.

I gasp. “Oh my God, I did it.”

Step Three: Attach the tent fly

Thank God for Google because without it, I wouldn’t have a clue what a guy rope is or a tent fly. But now I do. The tent fly is the extra layer of fabric that I somehow forgot about and is currently discarded on my sofa. It’s the waterproof bit.

I drape it over the top, securing it in place with a series of Velcro straps that seem to appear out of nowhere.

Step Four: Secure the guy lines

I find the thin white ropes hanging off the sides of the tent, “designed for stability in windy conditions,” as Google tried to explain to me. Not exactly necessary in my flat, but if I’m going to do this, I may as well go all in.

I try to knot one to a bookshelf. It immediately slaps me in the face.

“Brilliant.”

By the time I finish tying them off—mostly to my furniture, since I don’t fancy hammering tent pegs into my carpet—I step back and assess my work.

A fully upright, real-life tent, standing proudly in the middle of my living room.

I wipe my hands on my thighs, panting slightly. “Look at that. Queen of the great indoors.”

Sure, it takes up most of my living room. Sure, I may have knocked over a lamp in the process. And yes, my pouffe is now trapped inside the tent, but I did it.

And if I can put up a tent in my flat, then surely I can do it in an actual field.

Right?

Feeling proud of myself—and needing to document this triumph before the tent inevitably collapses—I grab my phone and snap a selfie in front of it, slightly flushed, slightly sweaty, but successful.

I open the messaging app and fire off the evidence.

Me

Behold! The Queen of Camping has arrived.

A reply comes almost immediately.

Theo

You actually put the tent up in your flat?

Me

And I did a mighty fine job, I’d like to add.

Theo

I would’ve paid good money to watch this happen in real-time.

Me

Rude. This was a flawless operation.

Theo

There’s a footstool trapped inside.

I glance at the pouffe, very visible through the opening of the tent. Fine. Maybe not entirely flawless.

Me

It’s part of the aesthetic. Rustic. Homely. A modern take on outdoor living.

Theo

Right. And where exactly are your tent pegs secured?

I bite my lip, staring at the four guy ropes currently looped around my radiator, the leg of my sofa, and—regrettably—a dining chair that now looks like it might tip over at any second.

Me

Don’t worry about it.

Theo

Oh, I’m definitely worried.

I smirk, flopping onto the sofa, my phone resting on my stomach.

This… this is easy.

The way we talk, the way we are, it’s natural. Friends. Always friends. And yet, my mind flickers back to the hot tub. That almost moment, the way the air felt different between us, the way his eyes had lingered just a little too long.

Then there was Pee-Pee, telling me maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if I did date… once the ban is over, of course. That I had learned things about myself now, that I wasn’t just reacting to loneliness anymore.

But Theo hasn’t indicated anything. No shift, no change—except, maybe, in the way he worries.

And that’s what nags at me. Is it just concern? Or is there something else sitting beneath it?

My phone buzzes again.

Theo

Alright, I’ll admit it. I’m actually impressed.

I blink at the screen, rereading the message. Impressed?

I shouldn’t care. It shouldn’t matter what he thinks about my questionable indoor camping setup. And yet, a little spark of satisfaction flickers to life in my chest.

I tap out a response, keeping it breezy.

Me

High praise! Bow before my superior survival skills.

Theo

Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. You haven’t actually survived anything yet.

Me

Details.

I toss my phone onto the sofa and stretch my arms above my head, groaning slightly. My entire body feels sticky, the heat clinging to my skin like an unwelcome second layer. The effort of wrestling with the tent has left me feeling both triumphant and gross, and there’s only one solution for that.

Shower. Immediately.

I drag myself to the bathroom, peeling off my yoga pants and T-shirt, both damp with sweat, and step under the blissfully cool spray. The water runs down my body, washing away the stickiness, the tension, the lingering thoughts about Theo and his praise and why it made me happy.

When I’m done, I wrap myself in a towel, but the moment I step into my bedroom, the heat presses against my skin again, thick and suffocating.

Nope. Not happening.

The towel drops.

I collapse onto my bed, sprawling across the thin summer duvet, naked and completely done with the day. The fan hums softly in the corner, offering only the weakest of breezes, but I can’t bring myself to care.

I stare at the ceiling, limbs spread like a starfish, the last messages from Theo replaying in my head .

I’m actually impressed.

It shouldn’t make my stomach flutter. It’s just Theo. We banter, we wind each other up—that’s what we do. It’s normal. But that stupid little compliment is now lodged in my brain, circling like a persistent mosquito.

I groan, rolling onto my side, but my thoughts refuse to settle. Instead, they wander back to that afternoon at Jasper’s, when we were all in the hot tub.

Nothing had happened—of course nothing had happened—but now, lying here naked, my brain decides to dig up details I had absolutely not needed to store.

The way Theo looked in those black shorts, his chest bare, just some sprinkling of dark hair. I remember noticing the way his muscles tensed when he moved, the water clinging to him in a way that made my mouth feel dry.

And the trail of dark hair on his stomach, snaking down beneath the waistband of his shorts…

He has this lean, muscular physique that I put down to his determined efforts to feed Lucy healthy food and, by extension, himself — though the yoga is clearly doing things too. Unfair things.

At our last class, Lucy encouraged him to show me some of his advanced moves. The ones he does at home. Shirtless, I imagine. With serene breathing and zero shame.

He held himself up like gravity was a mere suggestion. He did crow pose and another one with a name that sounds like a mildly sensual pasta dish, and didn’t even break a sweat. I, meanwhile, was trying very hard not to stare at his arms. Or his everything.

I swallow, shifting against the sheets. I press my palms over my eyes. “Nope. Not doing this.”

I roll onto my back, trying to will away the memory, trying to remind myself that Theo is just Theo.

But then I remember the way Theo had leaned back in the hot tub, water droplets trailing down his chest, disappearing into the rippling surface. The way his voice had sounded, low and amused, when he’d caught me staring for half a second too long.

My thighs press together instinctively.

What if we had been alone?

The warm water wrapping around us like a soft caress, while his lips meet mine with a touch that is both gentle and insistent.

His hands roam over my skin in slow, deliberate strokes, sparking a deep, burning desire that feels like it is setting me on fire from the inside out.

He pulls me onto his lap, and I straddle him, the heat between us almost something you can physically feel.

His kisses trail up and down my neck, leaving a tingling wake, and he whispers in my ear, his voice husky with longing.

His thumbs softly teasing my nipples through the fabric of my bathing suit before sliding the straps down to reveal me, and his eager mouth follows.

I can’t hold back a cry—a raw, honest sound of need and total surrender.

When he asks me what I want, I barely manage to whisper that I need to come.

He slowly eases a finger inside, then another, each movement full of purpose and care.

One hand begins to stroke me while his thumb traces rhythmic circles over my clit.

The sensations build up like a tidal wave, drawing me ever closer to the edge until I finally explode in a shattering release that leaves me utterly breathless.

I open my eyes and I am back in my bedroom, the reality of the moment settling in. My fingers, still sticky with my own arousal, serve as a clear reminder of that intense, vivid fantasy.

Fantasy… yes.

It is all just fantasy.