I found out quickly with Matt that I was not comfortable in my own skin.

And I know it wasn’t his responsibility to boost my ego, but I wish he would’ve at least once looked at me like he wanted to devour me. I wish he had given me a touch of confidence in the bedroom when I took my clothes off with just one hungry look or nod of approval.

But there was nothing.

He was more interested in his own pleasure than mine.

And once he found completion, that was about it. It got to the point where I wasn’t really trying anymore. I was just doing what I needed to do, and then I could get on with my night. I know it was one of the reasons why we disconnected. I tried talking to him about it once, even suggested trying something new, like toys, and he scoffed at the idea. I felt so humiliated, as if it was wrong to ask for more sexually. It drove home this insecurity that my sexual needs simply don’t matter and at the core of it all, I just wasn’t good enough. And that’s a hard perception to shut down.

So being immersed in a situation where sensuality and sexuality—which I have no experience with—are at the forefront of conversation makes my skin itch, especially since my fake husband seems to be very well versed in the matter.

“Ready?” Wilder says, knocking me out of my thoughts.

“Yeah,” I say as I down the rest of my orange juice and then dab my mouth with my napkin. Breakfast was delivered right on time, an assortment of pastries, coffee, tea, and yogurt parfaits. For a summer camp, it was pretty fancy. I was expecting pancakes and a vat of scrambled eggs to be cooked on a flat-top grill, only to be divvied out by the scoopful. But our tray was beautifully decorated with cloth napkins and a daisy in a vase and set in cotillion style.

Fancy.

“That apple Danish was really good,” he says as he opens the door to our cabin for us, the humid summer air already penetrating my skin.

“Yeah, I liked the cheese one. Kind of hope that’s something we get every day.”

“Hey, I was thinking the same thing.” He bumps my shoulder with his. “Look at us being friends.”

“Friends? I think that’s pushing it.”

“We shared a bed last night, Scottie. I think that makes us at least friends.”

“No, I think that makes you lucky.”

He gasps. “Holy shit, did you just make a joke?” He tugs on his ear. “Did I hear that right?”

“Can you not, please?” I try to hold back my smirk.