Rip. The tent rips in half. “Ah,” I scream as our things go flying everywhere in the wind. I scurry to the ground as I try to throw everything into bags.
Some kind of sanity rubber band breaks inside him, and he puts his hands on his hips, tips his head back to the sky, and bursts out laughing.
“This isn’t funny. Get our bags to the truck,” I cry.
He laughs . . . and laughs . . . and laughs.
I scramble to keep our phones dry and run to the truck with our bags.
“Jameson,” I yell. “Do something.”
He turns to me and takes me in his arms in the pouring rain and kisses me. Our headlamps hit together, and I laugh too.
“This is ridiculous,” I whisper.
“Hotel?”
“Please.”
“Hello.” I smile at the receptionist of the tourist center. “Have you got any B and Bs available for two nights, pleas
