Page 35 of The Forbidden Summer (Pathfinders Lake #2)

Van

Three Months Later

Turns out, Père snores like a dying lawnmower when we park near the ocean. Something about all that salt air and his sinuses.

By morning, he’s making coffee shirtless, humming off-key to some classic rock song, and just like that, I forgive him. Again. Like I always do.

The road stretches out ahead of us, the windows wide open, the day young. And despite the snoring and his criminally bad singing, I can’t stop smiling.

We’re out here, chasing sunshine. Together. Writing our own story with our own happy ending.

By noon, we’re deep into west Texas, where the roads are straight, the sky is endless, and the cows outnumber people ten to one.

Père insists we stop at a place called Buckaroo Bill’s World Famous Rattlesnake Emporium , which—spoiler alert—does not have air conditioning, but does have a live snake pit and a snack bar that sells deep-fried pickles and something labeled “mystery meat on a stick.”

Naturally, he tries the mystery meat.

Naturally, he regrets it.

“I think I’m dying,” he groans two hours later, sprawled on the tiny RV couch, one hand on his stomach, the other dramatically flung across his forehead like a Victorian widow.

“You’re not dying,” I say, steering us toward a rest stop. “You ate a questionable skewer labeled ‘Bill’s Surprise’. That’s not death. That’s math.”

He mutters something about my lack of bedside manner and how luck favors the young, then suddenly bolts for the bathroom. I offer a quiet prayer for the RV’s plumbing.

Later, as we sit outside under a blazing sunset, he sips ginger ale with a grimace and says, “You will mention this in the journal, won’t you?”

“Oh, I plan to illustrate it. ”

He swats my knee, but the grin sneaks through.

We toast to surviving Bill’s Surprise, to snake pits, bad choices, and the kind of love that follows you into the desert and laughs when you burp ginger ale at the stars.

Tomorrow, we head for New Mexico. He swears there’s a ghost town there where we can camp inside an abandoned saloon.

I don’t know what we’ll find, but if he’s with me, I know it’ll be ridiculous. And I know it’ll be worth it.

New Mexico feels like stepping onto another planet—the red rock cliffs, the way the sun bakes everything golden, the long stretches of highway where the silence hums louder than any engine.

We find the ghost town by accident, really.

A hand-painted sign on the side of the road reads: Tularosa Flats – Pop.

3 (Ghosts included). Naturally, we take the turn.

The place is barely standing, just half a saloon with swinging doors that creak like a horror movie, a crumbling general store, and a single crooked windmill that groans in the wind. We park the RV just beyond it, the ground flat and cracked beneath our boots.

“This place is haunted,” I say.

Père grins, his eyes catching the sunset. “Then I guess we better stay close. For safety.”

That night, the air is warm and dry, the sky so wide and full of stars it makes your chest ache to look at it. We drink whiskey on the steps of the saloon, feet dusty, backs against the wall, shoulders brushing .

He kisses me slowly. Not rushed or needy, but like he has all the time in the world. The kind of kiss that makes time stop. His hand slips beneath my shirt, and I shiver despite the heat. I feel him everywhere—his mouth on my neck, his breath at my ear, the scrape of his stubble on my jaw.

We end up inside the RV, tangled in sheets, the windows open to the desert breeze and the occasional sound of coyotes howling far away. Every time he touches me, I feel more grounded, more real—like this place, this life, this love is no longer a fantasy or a secret.

Père moves in and out of my body slowly, savoring the delicious friction and the way my hole clenches around his dick when he’s about to pull all the way out of me.

Like it’s begging him not to leave. His mouth claims mine, the coarse hair furring his chest scratching at my smooth skin.

I love it, the beard burn, the swollen lips and fire in my ass afterward.

Love feeling like he owns me. Because he does.

Every inch of me was shaped by this man, and every inch belongs to him.

Just as I’m about to cry out his name, he kisses me again, suckling on my tongue like it’s the head of my cock. When he releases me, I flood the space between our bellies with warm seed, and Père grunts his release into my body, fingers gripping me tightly as he buries his cock deep in my ass.

It’s always perfect, always satisfying. And never enough.

With our skin still warm and slick, we lie there in the dark, the ghost town quiet around us.

“Think the ghosts are watching?” I ask with a yawn, half-asleep.

“Let ’em,” he murmurs, dragging his fingers down my spine. “Jealous, probably. ”

And maybe they are. But I’m sure they’ll be long gone once Père begins to snore.

It starts as a gentle rumble—almost cute, like a distant motorcycle rolling across the desert. Then it builds. The windows vibrate. Somewhere, a coyote yelps and flees into the night.

I stare up at the ceiling, wide-eyed and grinning. My legs are still tangled with his, my chest still flushed from everything we just shared, but romance can only carry you so far against the auditory assault of a man who apparently inhales dreams and exhales thunder.

Carefully, I roll onto my side, pulling a pillow over my head like it’s a shield in a battle I never signed up for.

“Love you,” I whisper, muffled.

He grunts in his sleep—possibly in agreement, possibly in protest—and shifts closer, tossing an arm over me. I groan under the weight and grin anyway.

Yeah, I definitely signed up for this.

This is us. On the road. Under the stars. In an RV parked beside a haunted saloon in New Mexico. It’s insane.

It’s perfect.

I wouldn’t trade a second of it, not even the snoring. Though tomorrow, I’m definitely buying earplugs.