Christy Jeffries - A Family Under The Stars

From his kneeling position, he tried not to stare at the way the athletic fabric of her yellow, long-sleeved T-shirt clung to her small, pert breasts. Especially since he was pretty certain that her bra was drying with the rest of her wet clothes hanging off a nearby branch.

He struck the first match and got his thumbnail instead. Damn it.

Focus, Alexander. He heard his father’s voice reminding him that the customers come and go, but the river and the land were always there and deserved his full attention and respect. He knew better than to let a woman distract him, especially while lighting a fire. Besides, it was better than Commodore’s voice, which was a gruff, Pay attention, son, accompanied by a light smack across the back of his head.

“Is there anything you need me to set up before I start cleaning Trouty?” Charlotte asked.

He finally got a small flame going and blew on it a few times before responding. “You named our lunch?”

She leaned over his shoulder and looked at his wristwatch. It was well after three o’clock. “Technically, I named our dinner if we don’t hurry.”

Technically, if she moved any closer to him, he’d fall into the fire he’d just lit. He stood up a bit too quickly and the top of his head bumped into her chin.

“Ow,” she said, at the same time he blurted out an apology.

“Are you hurt?” He took either side of her face between his palms and, after nudging her hand out of the way, studied her jaw.

He didn’t know if it was the heat from the fire or something else that caused her face to warm up. But from the way she was avoiding eye contact with him, he had to wonder if she was reacting to his nearness the same way he’d just reacted to her tight shirt. Then he had to wonder why he cared.

“No, it’s my fault,” she said suddenly, taking a step back. “I’m usually not so accident prone.”

“Good thing we have a well-stocked first aid kit, then.” Alex wasn’t good with lighthearted banter. Or with women who expected too much from him. He needed to get back to what he did best. “So, tell me where you want me to set up the tent.”

“I was thinking by those trees,” she said, pointing to the smaller ponderosas away from the river. “It’s too bad the sun isn’t setting, otherwise we’d get an awesome shot of the light coming through the branches.”

“Trust me, we don’t want to be here after the sun sets.”

Her eyes grew into perfect circles and now looked more violet than blue. “Why? Are there bears and wild animals?”

“Probably. But I was actually referring to being on the river at night with a storm coming. And right now, we’re burning daylight.”

“Right,” she said, and set to work going through the container holding cooking supplies. But he noticed the way she stole glances toward the forest, as though she was worried an unwelcome visitor would join them for their meal.

Alex began pitching the tent, then decided the pictures would look more realistic if he set up some sleeping bags and a lantern inside. He’d had his doubts about Charlotte’s ability to cook something over an open fire rather than in a fancy state-of-the-art kitchen and those concerns doubled when he realized she was stopping every few minutes to take pictures of what she was doing with her smart phone. But when the mouthwatering scent of pan-fried fish reached his nostrils, he began to rethink his initial concerns.

Or maybe he was just hungry. He knew he should’ve had the stuffed French toast at the Cowgirl Up Café in town this morning instead of the simple bowl of oatmeal. Good thing his dad always taught him to pack extra dried food supplies, even for these day trips. He didn’t care how indigenous Charlotte Folsom wanted her staged meal to appear. If it didn’t taste good, he wasn’t eating it.

Alex made his way toward the fire to investigate whether he’d need to resort to freeze-dried tuna, but before he got there, a booming roar sounded and a flash lit up the gray sky. He saw Charlotte jump at the crashing noise, right before he saw a bolt of lightning hit one of the lower hanging trees by the river bank.

The tree splintered in two, with the heavier side falling in slow motion—right toward where he’d moored the raft.

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