Between the Sheets Read Free

of the cabins, figuring we might need an escape hatch. Bundling my things out of my CRV, I was grateful for her foresight.
    A card table had been set to the left of the front door as a check-in point for the conference attendees. We got ourselves signed in, dumped our gear in the cabin, and went to the orientation session. The room was about two-thirds full, and I couldn’t help myself; I spent the entire ninety minutes assessing my fellow conference attendees for their romantic possibilities.
    Well, the male ones, anyway.
    They finally cut us loose, and Krista and I shuffled along the sandy path to our two-room cabin. We had one of the lucky ones facing the beach, which was cool, but still—if we held hands, Krista and I could touch all the walls in the main room at once. It held two bunks, a desk, and a folding chair, and the bathroom was so tiny I wasn’t sure I’d be able to turn around in the shower.
    “‘
Keeping your program afloat
’? What a lame-ass title. Their ‘advocacy skills’ were rehashed common sense and a lot of wishful thinking.” Krista pushed the cabin door open wide, and a blast of late-afternoon sun highlighted the dusty sand our feet kicked up.
    I landed hard on my bunk, the coils under the mattress giving a perfunctory whimper of protest. “Because starting off a conference with an hour-and-a-half discussion on how to keep your job is always uplifting.”
    “Damn.”
    Not exactly the response I was expecting, and Krista’s thumbs began a furious flurry over her phone.
    “What?” I asked.
    She tossed her phone on the bed. “Effing J-Bone says he can’t come Sunday night.”
    “J-Bone?” I reached behind my neck for the ties holding my halter top up. “You’re dating a guy named J-Bone?”
    “Well, everybody’s gotta have something they’re good at.” She propped herself up on her elbows and gave me a naughty wink. “And don’t even think about taking your dress off.”
    I was saved from having to respond by her phone’s chirp. By the time she refocused on me, I’d untied the dress and was digging through my duffel bag for a pair of shorts.
    “Nope. No way.” She swung her legs around to sit on the edge of the bed. “Social hour is next, and you’re not going dressed as a shortstop.”
    “First base.”
    “Whatever.”
    Irritation drop-kicked my sense of humor out the window and I planted my fists on my hips. The front of my halter dress flopped forward, but I was too pissed to care. “Did you see anyone out there who would possibly care what I am wearing?”
    “Yes.” Her phone chirped. “Wait a sec.” She grabbed it. “And put a shirt on. Your titties are bugging me.”
    I expelled a bunch of frustration in a sigh for the ages and dropped onto the bed. I didn’t exactly tie the halter, but at least I tossed the straps over my shoulders.
    Krista finished her text and raised an eyebrow at me. “P. Kirk Ringdahl is here.”
    The head of our local teacher’s consortium, Kirk Ringdahl, starred in his own show. His breezy confidence was born of being one of the only unattached males in any group of music teachers, a status elevating him to the center of attention.
    Sure, I’d seen him. And chosen to ignore him. “So?”
    “So? He’s straight and single and—”
    “If you say he’s handsome, I’m going to puke.” And I meant it. Seriously. My day-long sour stomach threatened a huge revenge. He was tanned and toned and handsome in a dark-haired, semi-effete way but his main flaw was his chin, which faded into his Adam’s apple.
    “Get over it.” Krista glanced up from her text war to scold me.
    I really needed to go for a run. “Aren’t you the one who said puberty did him a solid by letting him grow a goatee, so we’d know where his face ended and his neck began?”
    She shook her head, catching her bottom lip with her teeth. “You are hopeless.”
    “I don’t care how much lipstick you slap on this pig, my dear, there’s no way I’m going to get