Page 30 of The Dating Ban (Mind the Corbin Brothers #1)

Emergency Jammie Dodgers

Ivy

“ W ell, would you look at that,” I say to absolutely no one as I sit cross-legged inside my newly assembled tent. “A structurally sound, waterproof, sheep-proof—probably—tent, put up entirely by yours truly. Who says city girls can’t survive in the wild?”

I clap my hands together, victorious. It only took me, what, an hour? Two? A minor wrestling match with a pole that refused to slot into place? But here I am. Tent up, dignity mostly intact, and no major injuries apart from that one incident where I tripped over.

I glance at the little camping cooker in front of me. Right. Time for the next challenge.

I pick up the instructions, squinting at them.

Step one: attach the gas canister . I look at the canister. Then at the cooker. Then back at the canister. “Okay, that seems easy enough.”

I twist it one way. Nothing.

I twist it the other way. Nothing.

I push. I pull. I wiggle it aggressively.

It does not attach.

“Right, cool. Love this for me,” I mutter, shaking it like that might magically fix the problem. “Really thriving out here.”

I set it down, taking a deep breath. It’s fine. I have time. The storm clouds rolling in aren’t a concern. Nope. Not at all. Just a bit of drizzle on the way, a light sprinkling of nature. I’m an outdoorswoman now. I can handle a little rain.

Thunder rumbles in the distance.

I freeze. “That was far away. Definitely far away. No need to panic.”

To prove my own point, I casually lean out of the tent and check the pegs holding everything in place. The inner and outer layers seem fine—nice and sturdy, no obvious disasters waiting to happen.

I sit back inside, feeling smug. Maybe I should start a survival blog. “How to Conquer the Outdoors: A Beginner’s Guide to Being an Absolute Legend.” I’d have tips like:

Do not trip over your own tent.

Do not kick your mallet into the bushes and spend twenty minutes looking for it.

Do not spend an alarming amount of time talking to yourself like a lunatic.

Another deep rumble shakes the air. I glance outside. The sky is getting darker by the second, thick clouds swallowing up the last bit of daylight. The wind tugs at the sides of the tent, making the fabric ripple.

I frown. “Did it say how much wind these things can handle?” I flip through the instruction booklet but, annoyingly, there’s no section titled “How Not to End Up in Oz When Camping in a Gale.”

One of the strings hanging from the outer tent, the ones I didn't bother doing anything with, flaps against the tent fabric in the wind. Hmm. With me in the tent, there is no way the tent will fly away so I’m sure it’s fine I didn’t peg the guy ropes.

Another gust of wind flaps the fabric violently.

“…Nah, it’s fine.”

I shove the thought away and return to the gas cooker, determined. “Right, listen here, you stubborn little—” I grip the canister with both hands and twist as hard as I can.

Click.

I freeze. “Oh.” I poke it gingerly. It’s actually attached.

I straighten my back, victorious once more. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have fire.”

I turn the knob, and with a satisfying whoosh, a little blue flame appears.

Immediately, I realise two things.

One: the inside of my tent is, in fact, a tent—a small, enclosed, very flammable space.Two: outside is not an option, because the wind is currently auditioning for a role in Twister.

I stare at the flame. The flame stares back.

“Nope.”

I twist the knob, snuffing out the flame before I manage to set myself—or my tent—on fire. Not today, death. Not today .

Leaning back, I assess my supplies. Right. What gourmet meal am I working with tonight?

Item one: A bottle of water. Useful, yes. Delicious? Not exactly.

Item two: Instant noodles, instant soup, and instant porridge—all requiring hot water that I do not have. Excellent.

Item three: One slightly bruised apple. Not exactly filling, but hey, it’s got vitamins.

Item four: The pack of Jammie Dodgers, courtesy of Lucy, who had solemnly pressed them into my hands at the motor services, telling me, "These are emergency biscuits, Ivy. In case you get hungry or sad.”

I pick up the biscuit packet, staring at it.

Well, Lucy, my love, I am both.

With a sigh, I tear it open and pull out a biscuit, biting into it as the wind howls outside. The tent flaps violently, and I flinch.

“Could you not?” I say to the weather, as if that might make a difference.

Thunder cracks overhead, loud enough to make my heart jump. The fabric of the tent shudders under the force of the wind, and I do a quick scan of the seams. Still holding. For now.

I crunch on the biscuit, chewing slowly. I should probably be more concerned about this storm.

The rain starts to hammer down properly now, the sound a relentless drumbeat against the tent. I adjust my sleeping bag around my shoulders, cocooning myself in what little warmth I can find.

I could go out and check the tent pegs again, but honestly? I don’t fancy getting drenched, and I’m not entirely convinced I wouldn’t just end up flying away like a very ungraceful human kite.

I take a sip of water, staring at my sad little pile of food. Well, this is bleak.

Another gust of wind rattles the whole tent, and I instinctively grip the edges of my sleeping bag tighter. But I shake off the moment of unease, forcing a smirk.

“Come on, Ivy,” I mutter to myself. “You survived your first flat in London with no heating, dodgy electrics, and a neighbour who used to watch TV at full volume at three in the morning. You can survive one night in a tent.”

I bite into my apple for good measure, pretending it’s a meal and not just an appetiser to my inevitable biscuit binge.

I settle back, stretching out inside my sleeping bag, and listen to the storm raging outside.

The thunder rolls on, deep and steady, like a giant clearing its throat.

The rain pounds against the tent, a relentless tap-tap-tap that, if I weren’t currently in the middle of the wilderness, might actually be quite soothing.

For a moment, I let myself believe this is nice. Cosy, even. Like nature’s own white noise machine.

Then—plop.

Something cold and wet lands right on my forehead.

I freeze.

Did… did my tent just spit on me?

I swipe at my face. Yep. Definitely water.

Frowning, I sit up and squint at the tent’s roof. The dim light from my torch catches a small, suspiciously dark patch just above me.

Another plop.

I slap my shoulder where the water just hit. What the—

I run my hand along the inside of the tent and—oh, fantastic. The fabric feels damp. Not just in one spot, either. I shuffle sideways, patting around, and—yep. There’s another wet patch. And another. My sleeping bag? Damp. My backpack? Damp.

Oh, that’s just bloody great.

“Are you kidding me?” I grumble, shifting onto my knees.

I squint harder at the ceiling. Is this tent leaking?

I haven’t even been out here that long! I spent ages putting this thing up! I even double-checked the seams! Sort of. Maybe. Okay, briefly, but still!

Another drop of water lands on my wrist, followed by a very unwelcome drip-drip sound coming from the far end of the tent.

Oh, no. No, no, no.

I grab my torch and shine it around, properly inspecting the damage. The fabric of the inner tent is visibly damp in several places. My sleeping bag is officially soggy. And now that I think about it, the outer tent was flapping suspiciously close to the inner one earlier.

Did I… set this up wrong?

Another gust of wind shakes the whole thing, and I sigh, rubbing my face. Right. That’s it. I am not sleeping in a leaking tent.

Decision made, I yank my backpack toward me and start stuffing everything inside. Clothes? In. Phone? In. Emergency biscuits? Definitely in. My sleeping bag is too damp to pack away properly, so I roll it up and leave it in the tent, hoping it’ll stay semi-dry for the next few minutes.

I wriggle into my rain jacket, yank my hood up, and take a deep breath .

Time to evacuate.

With the rain still hammering down, I unzip the tent, squeeze out, and immediately get smacked in the face by the wind.

“Oh, brilliant,” I mutter, blinking against the downpour.

The tent flaps wildly beside me as I reach down, fumbling with the pegs. The ground is muddy, making them slick, but I tug them free one by one, nearly losing my balance in the process.

The moment the last peg is out, the tent moves dramatically, like it’s personally offended by me. I don’t even have the energy to argue. Luckily the sleeping bag and backpack I left in the semi-dry tent are weighing it down enough that it can’t take off.

Grabbing fistfuls of damp fabric, I half-lift, half-drag the entire tent toward the only bit of shelter I know exists—the small, roofed patio next to the shower shed.

My boots squelch in the mud, my soaked hair sticks to my face, and my arms ache from the effort. But at this point? Dignity is dead. Survival mode is on.

By the time I reach the patio, I am drenched, panting, and thoroughly questioning every single decision that led me here.

But at least, finally, I am out of the rain.