Page 17 of The Nook for Brooks (Mulligan’s Mill #6)

brOOKS

I froze. “Camping?”

“Yes. Camping. I wanna go camping in these beautiful woods… and I think you should come with me.”

“Camping!” I repeated.

“Yes!” he repeated.

I blinked in horror and said again, “Camping?”

“Are we stuck in a time loop or something? Yes. Camping. You, me, the woods. A little tent, a fire, a sky full of stars. It’ll be fun.”

“Fun? Are you insane ? Why on earth would I deliberately choose to sleep outside when I own a perfectly good bed here… indoors… with sheets and pillows and running water?”

He grinned. “Because it’s an adventure.”

“Adventure?” I snorted. “Adventure is finding a misshelved copy of War and Peace wedged in between cookbooks and restoring it to its rightful place. Adventure is discovering the town library accidentally filed Moby-Dick under Fishing Guides and returning it to Literature where it belongs. Adventure is not—” I waved my half-eaten croissant violently.

“Deliberately bedding down in the dirt.”

Cody laughed so loud he coughed out a flake of pastry that landed on my shirt. I promptly brushed it off as he asked, “What’s the worst that could happen?”

“The worst?” I started counting on my fingers.

“Mosquitoes. Bears. Serial killers. Tents that collapse in the night. The inevitable moment I need to use the bathroom only to discover the ‘bathroom’ is a shrub. Sleeping bags are basically coffins with zippers, and don’t even get me started on the lack of basic essentials like electricity and chamomile tea.

Not to mention we just survived a flash flood!

I have no intention of doing that twice in my lifetime, let alone twice in the same week! ”

By now, Cody’s crumbs had spilled all over the counter. I couldn’t take it a minute longer. I snatched up my broom and began sweeping furiously.

Cody leaned even closer, unbothered. “Am I right to assumed you’ve never camped before?”

“Of course not,” I huffed. “I’ve spent my whole life avoiding such nonsense. I need lumbar support. I need cotton sheets. I need—” I jabbed the broom for emphasis. “Walls!”

He shrugged. “Then this’ll be your first time.”

I spluttered. “I don’t think so. I don’t have the equipment, I don’t have the expertise, and I certainly don’t have the inclination.”

“Relax. I’ll bring the gear, I’ll pitch the tent, I’ll even build the fire. All you’ve gotta do is show up. Well, and maybe try not to scream every time a cricket chirps.”

I swept harder, muttering, “I don’t scream, thank you very much.”

“You practically squealed when I tickled you.”

“That was not a squeal. That was sheer shock.”

He grinned, finishing off the last of his croissant and licking his fingers. “So that’s a yes, then.”

“It is absolutely not a yes.”

“Great,” he said, ignoring me entirely. “I’ll pick you up this afternoon, once you close up shop.

We’ll head out past the mill, hike a bit, head to higher ground, and set up camp overlooking the falls.

Trust me, Brooks Beresford, nothing says romance like marshmallows roasting over a crackling campfire. ”

I dropped my broom in horror. “Marshmallows? Oh god. Sticky fingers. Goo in the dark. You’re a menace.”

Cody leaned close, his grin infuriatingly warm. “Admit it, handsome. A little part of you wants this ‘menace’ oh-so badly.”

I could feel my pulse quickening. My bow tie felt suddenly too tight. I blustered, “If I die of exposure, I’m haunting you for the rest of your life.”

“You won’t die,” he said, patting my arm like I was a nervous poodle. “But if you do haunt me, make it sexy.”

I groaned, sweeping again just to have something to do with my hands. “Why do I let you talk me into these things?”

“Because,” he said simply. “You like me.”

And the worst part? He wasn’t wrong.

He sealed the deal with a quick kiss on my lips, then headed for the door, calling over his shoulder, “Oh, and bring your favorite ghost story. We’ll read it together by the fire. Give us even more reason to cuddle up close.”

And with a ring of the bell above the door, he was gone.

I spent the rest of the morning in a numb haze. I wondered if that’s how men awaiting their execution felt.

Every time I attempted to return to my normal routine—dusting shelves, aligning bookmarks, straightening a spine that was off-center by a full two millimeters—my mind was hijacked by images of the woods .

First came the pillow panic.

I am a man who sleeps with a carefully curated array of cushions: one for the neck, one for lumbar support, and one strategically placed at my knees to maintain alignment.

What, pray tell, does one sleep on in a tent?

A rolled-up jacket? A bundle of despair?

I pictured myself waking in the morning with a cricked neck so severe I’d require traction.

Then there was the matter of attire.

What does one wear to camping? I glanced at my wardrobe and saw a neat row of pressed shirts and bow ties staring back at me.

Would I be expected to trek through the wilderness in patent leather shoes?

Would I have to place my row of coat hangers on tree branches?

Would I be forced to wash my underwear in the river?

I had visions of being chased through the undergrowth by a pack of possums while clutching my cufflinks. It was the stuff of nightmares.

Thoughts of a culinary catastrophe arrived next.

Cody had mentioned marshmallows, but surely he’d expect hotdogs too.

Hotdogs from a can! Storage food, the kind that was designed to survive decades in a bunker.

I could practically hear the sizzle as ash and soot contaminated every bite.

And ketchup? I would have to eat ketchup out of a communal bottle in the dark. It was barbarism, pure and simple.

By mid-afternoon the soundtrack of doom had begun.

Every creak of the bookshop made me jump, imagining the forest amplified—snapping branches that weren’t branches at all but the ankle chains of some escaped convict creeping toward our tent.

I imagined rustling leaves that weren’t leaves at all, but the hem of a ghostly governess drifting through camp in search of gullible children.

I imagined the low hoot of an owl that wasn’t an owl at all, but the death-rattle of my own lungs as I succumbed to pneumonia in a damp sleeping bag.

By the time the clock hands inched toward closing, my nerves were as ruined as a paperback left out in the rain.

I turned the Open sign to Closed, and then… there he was.

Cody filled the doorway, the golden light of late afternoon framing him like some sort of reckless saint. He had a backpack slung over his shoulder, his hair was wild, his smile utterly infuriating with ease and confidence.

I gulped.

God help me. I was going camping.

Anxiously I opened the door, where he stood leaning broad-shouldered against the doorframe.

“Ready?” he asked.

“No,” I said flatly. “Absolutely not.”

“Good.” He grinned. “Then we’re right on schedule.” Before I knew it, he was already stepping inside, eyes looking me up and down. “Please tell me you’ve got something other than that to wear.”

“Um…”

His eyes tilted toward the spiral staircase. “Right-o then, let’s see your wardrobe. Surely you’ve got something up there more wilderness-friendly than bow ties and cufflinks.”

“Don’t hold your breath.”

But he was already making his way up to my tiny abode.

By the time I reached the top of the stairs, Cody was already making himself comfortable. He sat on the edge of my bed like he’d claimed the kingdom, long legs stretched out, arms braced behind him, surveying my private quarters.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said with a grin. “It’s like a tower turret. Small but cute. Very you.”

“It’s not small,” I said, straightening a stack of coasters on my side table. “It’s… efficient.”

“It’s adorable,” he said, patting the quilt as though testing the bed’s firmness. “Ready for a prince to come and rescue you.” He winked.

“Can we just get this whole humiliating exercise over and done with?” I muttered, flinging open my wardrobe doors.

Inside, a phalanx of pressed shirts and neat bow ties were all lined up at attention.

“Oh, what a shame. It would appear I have nothing remotely suitable for the great outdoors. We’ll have to forget the whole thing. ”

Cody peered forward with interest. “Wow. Do you even own jeans?”

“I have corduroy trousers,” I said stiffly.

He laughed so hard he almost toppled backwards onto my pillows. “Babe, the only thing you’ll attract in the woods wearing those is moths.”

I bristled, tugging out hanger after hanger as if to prove nothing I owned was about to miraculously transform into khaki or camouflage. “Forgive me if I don’t buy my wardrobe based on things I don’t enjoy doing, but that’s generally what people do.”

But Cody was determined to find a solution.

He unzipped his backpack with a flourish and pulled out a neatly folded pile, tossing it onto the bed. “Lucky for you, I came prepared. Cargo shorts. Hiking shirt. Breathable fabric. Pockets galore. You’re welcome.”

“You want me to wear your clothes?”

“Uh-huh. I’ve even got a spare pair of boots in case something happens to mine.”

“I cannot possibly wear those.”

“You can and you will.” He leaned back on his elbows, pleased with himself once more. “Now come on. Get changed, quick sticks.”

“I’ll change in the bathroom,” I said, picking up the clothes as though they might bite me.

“Oh, come on. You can strip in front of me.” He raised his brows, wickedly amused. “I gave you a hand job yesterday, remember? Now stop stalling. We’ll start to lose the light soon.”

More anxious than ever, I began unbuttoning my shirt. By the time I was down to my briefs, there was no disguising the very obvious contents tenting the fabric.

Cody’s eyes widened and his grin turned wolfish. “Jesus, Brooks. Fuck, I could jump you right now.” He dragged his gaze slowly up and down, making no effort to hide his appreciation.