Page 28 of The Dating Ban (Mind the Corbin Brothers #1)

Somewhere in Dorset

Ivy

T heo pulls the car to a stop at the edge of a wide, open field, right next to what can only be described as a large shed with a weathered sign shouting CAMPSIDE in big, bold letters.

The shed’s surrounded by a wide wooden patio with a roof and a few picnic benches scattered about, presumably so campers can enjoy their baked beans in comfort, come rain or shine.

“Are you sure you’re going to be alright here?” Theo asks, giving the so-called campsite a thorough once-over. His raised eyebrows are doing a lot of heavy lifting.

To be honest, I’m not entirely sure what I expected from a campsite, but it wasn’t…

this. I thought there’d be more, I don’t know, basic conveniences?

Maybe something that felt less like the start of a survival documentary.

But then again, roughing it was the plan, wasn’t it?

Back to nature. Proper camping. No glamping nonsense.

“It looks… lovely,” I say with a cheery smile that’s all teeth and no sincerity .

“Are you sleeping with the sheep?” Lucy pipes up from the back seat. She’s wriggled free of her car seat and is now perched between the front seats, pointing at a group of sheep grazing peacefully near the edge of the field.

“I hope not,” I mutter under my breath, the cracks in my resolve starting to show.

Don’t get me wrong, the location is stunning.

Rolling green hills stretch out in every direction, the Dorset countryside looking like something off a postcard.

But it’s also painfully clear how far away the nearest civilisation is.

The tiny houses dotted across the landscape look charming… and utterly unreachable.

“Want me to help you with the tent?” Theo offers, though the crease in his forehead suggests he is worried about more than just my shelter.

“No, that’s fine. I’ve got this,” I lie with the confidence of someone who absolutely hasn’t got this. “Don’t you need to get to your cottage?” I throw in an extra-wide smile for reassurance.

“Okay… if you’re sure,” he says, not sounding convinced.

“Absolutely,” I reply with a chirp, turning to Lucy. “Right, Squirt, have a fab time with your dad.” I give her button nose a playful squeeze, earning a delighted giggle.

Theo’s mid-unloading my backpack and tent from the boot when a stocky man emerges from the shed, waving.

“You alright there, folks?” he calls out in a thick Irish accent.

“I’ve got a pitch booking for a week,” I reply, shielding my eyes from the sun.

“Grand,” he nods, stroking his ginger beard like it’s his pet cat. “Ivy Gillman, yeah?” He gives Theo a quick once-over and glances at the car .

“That’s right,” I confirm.

“I’m Mick. Welcome to Creggy Hill Campside.

Your pitch is over there by the trees, but honestly, no one else is booked tonight, so take your pick.

We are not that well known yet. Showers are over there,” he points to the small shack nearby, “and the toilet’s the same way.

If you need anything after I leave, just use the phone by the door there.

” He gestures to an ancient-looking handset hanging outside the shed.

Theo frowns at this. “Is that it?”

“Aye,” Mick replies with a shrug. “Most guests we’ve had so far came in campervans. Don’t get many with just a tent.” His eyes drop to my rolled-up shelter, which suddenly looks about as durable as a plastic carrier bag.

“I’ll be fine. I’ve got a cooker,” I say, clinging to my one bit of semi-reliable kit. Thank fuck for that sales assistant who convinced me to buy the gas cooker. Let’s just hope I can figure out how to use it.

Theo doesn’t look convinced. “Ivy, are you sure—”

“Absolutely, I’ve got it all under control,” I interrupt, letting out an awkward laugh. I steer him towards the car before I lose my nerve. If he lingers much longer, I’ll end up begging him to take me with him.

Mick grins at me, clearly amused. “Love, let me give you a hand with your bags.” He grabs the tent and my backpack, carrying them towards the trees.

“Right,” Theo says hesitantly.

I give him a reassuring pat on the chest, careful not to meet his eyes in case he spots the wobble in mine. “This is exactly what I need. You and Lucy go have a great time, and I’ll see you in a week when you pick me up. ”

Theo studies me, then pulls out his phone. “There’s no reception here, Ivy. What are you going to do if something happens?”

I wave dismissively towards the phone by the shed. “I’ll use that. Stop worrying, Theo.”

“Promise me you’ll call if you need anything?” His voice is gentle now, almost pleading.

“Stop worrying,” I say again, more firmly this time, and wink before scooping up the sleeping mat. I twirl dramatically, waving at Lucy. “Have a fabulous time, you two!”

Lucy waves back, beaming. Theo just shoves his hands into his pockets, his expression like I’m marching off to war.

I can’t let him rattle me. I’m not the first woman to go camping alone. Look at that woman who walked that massive mountain trail in America—what’s-her-name? If she can do that, I can handle a week in Dorset.

“Need help with the tent, love?” Mick calls as Theo reverses the car onto the road.

“Nah, I’m good,” I reply with a grin I hope looks confident. “I practiced.”

“Fair play to ya’,” he chuckles, heading back towards the shed.

I take a deep breath, looking out at the rolling hills and feeling the sun on my face. The breeze is cool, carrying the fresh smell of grass and sheep.

“Let’s do this,” I mutter, hoping I believe it.

“What the fuck!” I hiss through gritted teeth.

This is officially getting ridiculous. Back in my flat, it took me fifteen minutes to put this bloody tent up.

Fifteen minutes. What I hadn’t accounted for, however, was the sheer force of nature out here in the wild.

Namely, the wind, which has turned my tent into a flailing sail and me into an unwilling circus act.

First, the wind decided to snatch my tent bag and send it cartwheeling across the field, so I had to sprint after it like an idiot.

Then, while I was wrestling with one end of the tent, the other end flapped up and smacked me in the face.

I tried pinning it down with my backpack, only to realise I’d left the pegs in my backpack.

Somewhere in all this chaos, a vicious wasp—bee?

Whatever it was, it had wings and a vendetta—buzzed right into my personal space, nearly flying into my ear.

I shrieked, flailed, and ran around the field like a maniac, arms flapping like I was signalling for rescue.

By the time I calmed down, Mick had thankfully buggered off back to his farm, leaving the sheep as my only witnesses. They’ve shuffled further away, probably deciding I’m too much of a liability to be anywhere near them.

Finally, after what feels like a lifetime, I manage to click the second pole into place and pull the frame up, coaxing it into something resembling a tent. I tie the sides to the poles and voila, my new home is standing proud in the Dorset countryside.

“Aha!” I cheer triumphantly. It’s a two-man tent, but with my massive arse and my overpacked backpack, I need every square inch of space.

“Oh shit.” A strong breeze catches the tent, lifting it off the ground. I lunge to press it back down without destroying what I built. I should have done the pegs first! The tent flaps angrily in the wind, mocking me, and I swear I hear the sheep chuckling from a distance.

Desperately, I hold it in place with one hand while unzipping the entrance with the other. Another gust nearly takes me with it, and I swear under my breath. Autumn’s definitely on its way, and this wind is its sassy little herald.

Still holding the tent down, I stretch towards my backpack, which is agonisingly just out of reach.

I can’t let go of the tent or it’ll end up in the next field, but I need the bloody bag to weigh it down while I pitch the pegs.

“Come on,” I mutter, stretching so hard my muscles start to cramp.

The strap is right there, so close, just an inch from my fingertips.

And then, because I am a genius, I lose my balance.

With a yelp, I topple over, dragging the tent with me.

Brilliant. Just brilliant. For a second, I just lie there, staring up at the inside of the tent and letting my idiocy wash over me.

Why didn’t I just carry the tent over to the bag?

It’s not pitched yet! I’m such a numpty.

I can’t help it, I start laughing. Proper, uncontrollable, belly-aching laughter. I’m sprawled on the ground, holding up the tent like I want to juggle with it, and it’s all so ridiculous I can’t stop. The sheep look on in judgmental silence as I crawl out from under the mess, still giggling.

Scrambling to my feet, I grab the tent and my backpack and lug them back to the flat patch of ground I’d chosen earlier.

This time, I shove the backpack into the tent’s entrance with a triumphant grunt and zip it up tight.

There. The tent is finally weighted down, and I can take my time putting the pegs in without the wind staging another coup .

I straighten up, wipe the dirt off my jeans, and glare at the tent like it’s a naughty child. “Right,” I say to no one but the sheep. “Let’s finish this.”