I die—not like a peaceful passing, more like a slow, torturous death where the murderer insists on embarrassing his victim before inching the tip of a knife into his victim’s carotid artery.

“Nothing about you does it for me.”

His eyebrows slide up his forehead as his gaze dips to inspect my chest. “You sure about that?”

Mother trucker …

“I’m cold.”

“You have sweat along your brow.”

“It’s a cold sweat.”

“It’s like eighty degrees in here.”

“I have a sluggish thyroid.”

His grin grows a fraction as his gaze dips to my mouth again for a brief second. “You should sprinkle kelp on your food.”

“Where’s the key to the truck?”

“What do my underwear smell like?”

I squint at him, desperate for a really good comeback. I need one. He’s been one step ahead of me this entire trip. I NEED to get the upper hand, just once.

Vegan farts? No. That won’t give me the upper hand.

Asscrack cologne? No. That’s dumb.

Dick cheese? Maybe.

Putrid pubes? No. I’m not sure he has them. Maybe he’s shaven in that region. I direct my gaze to just below his abs. It’s too dark to say for sure, but I’m certain there’s a teasing of a happy trail, surely that thing doesn’t end in a barren convergence of skin, two low-hanging sacs, and a bobbing appendage.

Biting my lips together in contemplation, I glance back up at him. “Stop staring at my boobs.”

“Stop staring at my junk.”

“Oh my gosh!” I climb to my feet, finding the center of the tent where I can fully stand. “You are so full of yourself. I was not staring at your junk, I was just seeing if you had …”

He lies back, propping his head up on a bent arm. It does nice things to his abs.

Avery … you suck.

“If I had what? Junk?”

“Hair.” There. I just said it.

He runs his other hand through his thick head of hair. My nipples are screwed.

“I used to have a shaved head, but I’ve had hair for several years.”

My teeth work side to side. One chance. I just need one good chance to get the upper hand, but he snags it every time.

“But … that’s not the hair you were looking for. I’m guessing.”

“The key, Jake.”

He grins, scratching just below his navel at the start of his happy trail. “It goes all the way.”

“The key, now.”

“The sun’s not up. I’m not letting you start my truck. There are other campers nearby. You don’t need to make noise and fill the surrounding air with exhaust. Settle in with your dog and you can charge it in a few hours.”