Wildly in Love by Anna Lindgren

Author:Anna Lindgren [Lindgren, Anna]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-02-28T00:00:00+00:00

EIGHTEEN

TAG

“Tag,” her soft voice whispers. “Wake up.”

I peel an eye open and groan when I see her softly shaking me awake to move off the comfort of her sleeping bag.

But I don’t want to leave.

“Can’t we just share?” I plead.

“No way. This sleeping bag is way too small.”

“Why? I don’t feel good, and you let me get high.” She scoffs, and a weak grin tugs at my lips, my eyes weighted shut. “What would the viewers think?”

“Ask me if I care.”

I rub a hand along the outer shell of the sleeping bag, the silky-smooth material beckoning me.

“Want to trade?” I ask. “I’ve got a pretty sweet shower curtain you could use.”

She mumbles something I don’t hear before answering, “No.”

“Fine,” I mutter, lifting myself from the ground and bundling my shower curtain around my shoulders.

“For your records,” Chelsea says, snapping a photo of me.

I wonder what Chelsea is so scared of. Sharing a confined space with me in the outdoors can’t be it. People do it all the time in true survival fashion.

“You know, physical proximity doesn’t equate to emotional closeness,” I mumble.

“What’d you say?” Her head whips back around to face me.

“Nothing.”

“Tag,” her voice warns.

“I just think you could share your sleeping arrangements without the fear of becoming attracted to me.” I hold my hands out, unfurling my shower curtain.

She barks with laughter.

“Yeah, I think I better not take any chances.”

Her sarcasm doesn’t get past me. It’s a constant shield of deflecting whenever I’ve struck a nerve. The clarity of her fears of growing too close to someone, too close to me, become evident.

And I wonder if she’s as dissatisfied with me as I’m intrigued by her.

Whoa there, I remind myself. The time to have a deep heartfelt discussion likely isn’t on the heels of a shroom-induced emotional state.

She lets down her long, dark hair that subtly kinks from the band that, moments ago, held it high on her head. The rebellious strands frame her face with a bit of a wave. The humidity frizzes some of her hair, giving the illusion of a halo in the glow of the fire. The wilderness is spectacular, but there’s something so much more captivating about Chelsea.

“Hey,” she says, turning and grabbing the pair of boots from her pack. “I think you should wear these from here on out.”

Her kindness bubbles up some kind of emotion in me, and I fight the tears with a grunt to clear my throat.

“You hiked these up a mountain—for me?”

“Yeah, yeah,” she mocks. “I brought them because I figured you’d need them with your trusty waterproof shoes.” She air-quotes around the word waterproof, and I blush at her kindness. “Would’ve given them to you a lot sooner if you’d admitted you were wrong.”

“That’s so nice,” I rush the words, trying not to cry.

I steal a glimpse at her, and she’s smiling down at me. There’s something kind beneath Chelsea’s tough exterior. A vulnerability that, if too exposed, would be taken for granted. Maybe it’s a lesson she’s

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