Free Stealing Third by Marta Brown Page A

it.”
    She
laughs at my assessment, and judging by her volume, I can’t tell if she’s just
not adept at the art of sneaking out, or if she’s purposely trying to be overt.
    “Shhhh.
Keep it down.” I glance around, not particularly wanting to get caught myself.
    She
keeps a smile on her face, but her eyes narrow. “Better question is—what are
you doing?”
    I
take in the girl, hoping the answer I’m searching for in the middle of the
night will be as obvious as a big red flashing sign that says ‘eighteen’ above
her head, but no luck. In the dim moonlight, surrounded by the flickering light
of fireflies, she looks as innocent and young in a pair of red flip-flops as
she looked out-of-control sexy in the red heels she wore a few nights ago.
    “I
uh…” I stammer, not sure if I should just come right out and ask.
    She
takes another step forward, so close I can smell the soft scent of bubble gum
on her breath. “Yes?”
    I
run my hands through my hair.  I might as well just admit what I’m doing, find
out the truth, and call it a night. Because standing out here in the dark with
her—all alone—is seriously tempting me to not give a shit. I want to kiss her
again. Bad.
    “I
was going to check your file.” I shove my hands in my pockets, my shoulders
high and tense.
    She
arches her brow, a mischievous smile on her face. “Why? Are you stalking me?”
    No.
Yes. “I uh…I wanted to check…”
    “Spit
it out, Slugger,” she says, clearly enjoying watching me squirm as the teeth of
the key, wrapped firmly in my balled up fist, digs into my palm.
    “I
was going to check your file for your age, all right.” I blow out a long
breath, and immediately wish I wouldn’t have fessed up, because hearing the
idea spoken out loud definitely makes me sound like a stalker.
    Her
eyes widen.  “My age?”
    “Yeah,
your age,” I say under my breath, but failing. “It’s bad enough you’re my
coach’s daughter, but are you even eighteen yet?”
    Emily
takes a step backwards and then another, her gait playful and light, unlike my
own stiff posture as I anxiously wait for her answer.
    “Sooooo,”
she draws out, wearing a flirty smile, “you want to know my—”
    “Miss
Evers? Mr. Ford?” a deep voice says, interrupting Emily, and sending my heart
careening into my throat.
    I
spin around and squint against the blinding shine of a flashlight obscuring my
view of his face, but his voice is clear. Walter Robbins. Camp Director.
     

Chapter
11
    Emily
     
    Pissed
off is an understatement.
    I
throw on a pair of cut-off shorts over my bathing suit, slip on my flip-flops,
and glare at Tyler’s zip up lying crumpled at the end of my bed.
    Scowling,
I snatch it up from where I tossed it after getting back last night, and stomp
out of the cabin and into the damp early morning. My attempt at getting strike
one, putting me one step closer to going home, a total and complete fail.
Thanks to Tyler.
    The
camp is quiet and empty with the exception of the kitchen staff busy preparing
breakfast for nearly a hundred and fifty campers as I make my way down the
trail to the lake. My anger growing wilder than the dew covered shrubs I’m
cutting through.
    “You,”
I growl, crossing my arms when I reach the dock, not even trying to hide my
contempt.
    Tyler
glances up, seeming startled by my abrupt greeting, before he runs his hand
through his darkened hair and smiles. His green eyes crinkling at the corner as
he treads water.
    Damn
it.
    I
turn my attention to the mist coming off the lake to avoid my resolve
crumbling. I’m still mad at him. No matter how hot he looks dripping wet and
smiling at me like that.
    “Let
me guess, not a morning person?”
    “More
like, not a child who needs swim lessons—No thanks to you,” I huff, sounding
exactly like the child I’m claiming not to be.
    Tyler
grabs the edge of the dock, and I can’t stop myself from watching the muscles
in his back and arms flex as he lifts himself out of