Flirting with Fire: A Summer Camp Swingers novel

“Over here,” I called. He jumped in surprise, and I sighed to myself.

That was my other major regret about the house. It was deep in the woods and looked older than it was, so it looked like it belonged in a slasher film. Fortunately, I didn’t. I looked like what I was, a friendly suburban dad in a polo, shorts, and canvas deck shoes. Still, I approached with my wallet in view.

“How much do I owe you?”

He told me and then relaxed when I pulled out cash instead of a butcher knife.

“Sorry if I scared you.” I handed it over. (The cash, duh! Don’t slash your first victim until the cheerleader takes off her top. I thought everyone knew that. Right, moving along.)

“It’s all good,” the guy said. He counted the money and frowned at the extra.

“Keep the change,” I said helpfully.

“Yo! Thanks, dawg.”

I chuckled to myself. I’d gone from would-be slasher to dawg in less than a minute.

“Next time come to the side door,” I said as we walked back to the driveway. I pointed it out when we reached his car.

“Sweet.”

“Thanks again,” I said. “Have a good one.”

“Yeah, peace out.”

I returned to the kitchen and set the stack of pizza boxes on the counter. Allie had already pulled out plates and napkins.

The girls wanted to eat inside and watch a movie, so we sent them into the living room. Emily turned on the TV, loaded Ice Age into the DVD player, and turned the volume up to eleven. Trip had specced the sound system, and I was pretty sure he’d been thinking in terms of Who concerts instead of suburban home theater.

“Do you wanna take ours outside?” I suggested to Allie.

She surveyed the scene in the living room. She loved her kids as much as I loved mine and McKenna, but five girls and three dogs made a lot of noise. Even Molly wasn’t immune to the girls’ energy. The animated squirrel added to the cacophony, and the subwoofer vibrated the entire room as the glacier in the movie cracked and began raining shards.

“God, yes!” Allie laughed over the din.

I signaled to Emily to turn the volume down. She glowered in true Christy fashion but jabbed the button. The sound came down to the heavy construction range. I gave her a measured look, and she aimed the remote like she was casting the Cruciatus Curse. I did my best not to grin as she glared at me instead of watching the volume level. It dropped to zero, and the other girls complained. Emily hastily returned the volume to a comfortable level.

“Much better,” I said. “Thank you.”

Allie and I retreated to the kitchen, and I gestured at the fridge.

“Sorry I can’t offer you wine or a cocktail—”

She twitched her eyebrows.

“—but we have an astonishing variety of juice, everything from pomegranate to açaí berry, whatever the hell that is.”

“It’s okay,” Allie chuckled. “I completely understand. I’m fine with Snapple.”

“We have a variety of that, too. Lemonade, kiwi strawberry, or cranberry raspberry? That’s what we have cold. We have more in the pantry, but I’m not sure what.”

“Cranberry, please,” she said. “Got to keep the plumbing in good order.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s fine,” I chuckled.

Wouldn’t you like to know, the little head snickered.

Allie pursed her lips, and her eyes said the same thing.

“Oh, boy,” I added under my breath.

“What?” she teased. “Was it something I said?”

“Outside.” I gestured imperiously, part command, part request.

Allie grabbed the pizza box, plates, and napkins, and I followed with the drinks. The evening wasn’t any cooler than before, but at least it was quieter. Well, quieter in a relative sense.

The rhythmic song of frogs filled the air, along with the splash of the pool waterfall and the low growl of a passing speedboat. Our part of the lake was miles from the nearest public boat ramp, so it was probably one of our neighbors coming home.

Allie bent over the nearest chair and set the pizza box on the table. She was still wearing her towel around her waist, although she hadn’t covered her top with anything. I noticed her tan lines again.

“Why’d you decide to wear that suit?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

We settled into our chairs and scooted them in.

“You normally wear a two-piece,” I said.

She furrowed her brow. “How’d you—? Oh, my tan lines.”

“Yeah.”

“What about them?”

“Not that I’m complaining,” I said. “You look great, but… I think you’d look amazing in your regular suit too.”

She snorted in polite disagreement, so I made a point to admire her. She was tall and curvy, padded in all the right places without being plump. Most men (and quite a few women) noticed her D-cup chest and stopped there, but I thought her eyes were her most striking feature. They were a lagoon blue that turned to green at the iris.