Operation Tropical Affair: A Poppy McVie Adventure (Poppy McVie Series Book 1) by Kimberli Bindschatel

up and caressed my cheek, then slipped his hand behind my neck. He paused, inches away, his hungry eyes lingering on my lips. I ran my hand up his arm, across his shoulder to his neck and pulled him toward me. Our lips met. His tongue touched mine and made my insides twinkle.  
    “Mmmm, I like your style,” he said with a grin and kissed me again. His hand slid down from the small of my back, sending warm pulses up my spine. I twirled the hair at the base of his neck in my fingers, gently tugging. He pulled me closer and nuzzled my ear, then my neck. His stubble rubbed against my flesh and made me shiver.  
    “Where’s the beer?” someone called from below. I backed into the rail. Noah held me, his strong hands keeping me pressed against him.  
    “The cooler’s by the shed,” he said. “Should be full.”
    “Right on, bro,” the voice called back.
    I pulled away from his embrace. This was getting too hot, too fast. I had to keep my head straight. “I should get changed,” I said.  
    He hesitated as though trying to read my thoughts. “Sure.” He padded across the wood plank floor and soon candles lit the room with a soft glow. To one side, comfy rattan chairs, a coffee table, and a bookshelf stuffed with paperbacks made a cozy living room area. At the edge of the railing stood a bar with two barstools. On the other side, drawers and a wardrobe were built into a solid wall, to the right of that was a wooden door. Beyond, a roped bridge led into the darkness, to another tree house possibly. A ladder reached upward to a tiny loft where I could see the edge of a queen-size mattress. The ceiling was part thatch roof, part plastic sheeting. A single fan slowly turned overhead.  
    He took a T-shirt from a drawer and handed it to me. “Bathroom’s there,” he said and pointed to the wooden door.
    “Thanks.” I couldn’t get away fast enough. I splashed cold water on my face. What the hell was I thinking? I quickly changed into the T-shirt, stuffed mine in my backpack, looked in the tiny mirror, and took a deep breath. Keep your act together, McVie.
    I shot a text off to Dalton: Will be late. Don’t worry.
    “Much better,” I said as I emerged from the bathroom and sashayed toward the staircase. I could smell something roasting on the fire. “I’m hungry.”  
    “All right then,” Noah said.
    I felt a twinge of regret.  

    Noah’s friend Jack had the fire stoked enough to run a steam engine. To the side, atop a huge pile of coals, a makeshift pot, some kind of sawed open half metal barrel, bubbled with boiling water. Jack tended a basket, pulling it out to check the contents, then dunking it in again, each time causing the water to run over, sending up a whoosh of steam. The gang (I counted eight friends plus Noah) was gathered around the fire, watching Jack’s elaborate show. Each time he dunked the basket, they stepped backward for fear they’d singe eyebrows.  
    My throat started to tighten with the familiar anxiety. “What’s for dinner?” I asked, trying to get myself prepared. I have this thing about mystery food.  
    “Wisconsin fish boil,” Jack said. “Sans the fish, of course.” He yanked the basket upward again, poked at a potato with a stick, and nodded with satisfaction.  
    He carried the basket to a picnic table that had been covered in newspaper and flipped it upside down. Potatoes, corn cobs, onions, and what looked like chunks of squash tumbled onto the surface. “Grub’s up!”
    Noah handed me a plate, then whistled. Everyone turned their attention to him. He pointed to me. “This is Brittany.” He made a vague gesture and said, “The gang.” I smiled. Some nodded, smiled. That was that. I was accepted. Either Noah was their indisputable leader or they were a pretty easy-going group.
    I waited my turn to take a helping of the vegan fish boil, then as everyone settled into places around the fire, their plates balanced on their knees, bottles of Cerveza Imperial