The Danger With Fireworks - Robin Daniels Page 0,4

fake. “Sorry I’m late.” Late? Five minutes is late. Twenty minutes—that was downright rude. I was so miffed I didn’t even want to hear his excuse. “Holy cow!” He whistled and fanned himself with his hand. “It’s a scorcher today, isn’t it?”

I folded my arms over my chest and muttered, “You think?” I’d said it softly, but Shelly heard anyway. Her shoulders bounced ever so slightly.

Clint had that classic magazine thing going on: chiseled jaw, bleached blond hair falling in his face, tanned skin. His stance, paired with his board shorts and flip-flops, said, I don’t need to care because I’m that good-looking. He grabbed the hem of his shirt and pulled it up to wipe off his face. One glance at the girls—who were quite possibly drooling—and I knew he’d only done it to show off his abs. I bet he hadn’t even been sweating. What a douche.

I changed my mind. Now I was interested in his reason for being late. If the guy wanted my respect, he better have been doing CPR on a drowned squirrel or something. I waited for him to explain, but he only grinned wider and asked, “How about we take this into the lodge?”

My face got hot, and it wasn’t from the sun. I looked at Shelly and hissed quietly, “You mean we could have been waiting in the air conditioning this entire time?”

Shelly shrugged, and her face scrunched up in a sour pout. “I guess. That sucks.” She’d been checking Clint out just like the rest of the girls, but at least she seemed annoyed. And she said four whole words, so that was something.

The lodge felt more like it belonged at a resort than a summer camp. The ceiling was vaulted, and wooden beams spanned from one side to the other. On the end with the kitchen, the wall was covered in windows. Hand-carved wooden banquet tables and benches sat below the glass, basking in the natural light. The other side of the building had a decent-size stage and padded seats for the audience. There was a whiteboard set out, and Clint walked us to the first row of chairs, motioning for us to take a seat.

“Let’s start over here with the introductions.” He pointed to the opposite end from where I sat between Shelly and the only other guy. After Dave shared where he was from and what his concentration was, Clint turned to me with a scrutinizing look. It was subtle, but he was definitely sizing me up. “That must make you Garland.” He oozed phony pleasantry.

“Yep,” I replied lazily, trying to hide the fact that I was surprised he knew who I was. “That’s me.” I relaxed back into my chair with a casual vibe and an expression that said he’d failed to impress me. Clint smirked. Message received.

“The way Chloe described you, I pictured someone a little more…” He paused, and his smirk grew. “…imposing.”

Imposing? My first thought was to wonder exactly what Chloe had said. But I didn’t have time to dwell on that since Clint was basically calling me a wimp. So my abs weren’t quite as sculpted as his. I easily had four inches and twenty pounds on the guy. My jaw clenched, but no matter how badly I wanted to give him a snide retort, I didn’t want him to know he’d gotten to me.

I shrugged with one shoulder. “I’m tall and broad, but I’m just too chill to be imposing.” It came out way cockier than I’d intended. What was wrong with me? I sounded almost as douchy as he did.

Clint was clearly amused by me, but he didn’t reply. Instead, he turned to Shelly. “Hey, Shell-bell. You’ve finally graduated to counselor.” He blasted her with a megawatt smile. To Clint’s credit, it looked sincere when aimed at Shelly. To Shelly’s credit, it didn’t seem to have the same effect on her as it did on all the other girls.

The next hour was filled with a lecture on protocols like daily routines, safety procedures, behavioral expectations, and offenses that were likely to get us in trouble. “Now for the most important part,” Clint said soberly. “Under no circumstances are you to be alone with a camper, especially one of the opposite sex. This goes for male and female counselors. Do not engage in romantic relations—or anything that could be misinterpreted as romantic—with a camper. I don’t care if you’re barely eighteen and the other person is seventeen and eleven months. I don’t