Two and a half months later, Blake and I have fallen into something like a routine. At some point each day, he goes for a run or walk or swim or works out in the hotel gym—something. Turns out he has exercise rings on his watch, and he must close them each day. Thinking his pace would be a light jog, I tried to run with him one day. I nearly died. That was the end of that.

So far, my rules are working, even though I've gotten a bit bored of them and tried to push the boundaries. The first time I pranced around the hotel room in just a towel, I found rule number fifty-three added to the list—no towel-only attire in shared spaces.

That's not the only rule he's added. After a night where we watched TV together, the next morning I discovered he'd added rule number fifty-four, if you pick the movie, you cannot sit on your phone scrolling through social media instead of watching it.

The passive aggressiveness should have annoyed me, but it only made me laugh. He'd sat on his phone as well. So, I'd added rule number fifty-five and pinned it to the fridge in our kitchenette for when he returned from his exercise—no double standards.

From there, the rules have gotten a tad out of control. Each time one of us is annoyed, we add another number to the list. Pages of rules. Most of which I can't remember, but Mr. Human Sponge has no issues with pointing out which ones I have conveniently forgotten whenever it suits him.

True to his word, he's gone with me on any excursion that had even a whiff of danger whether it be a hike, a boat ride, or a sightseeing tour to a remote location. Secretly, I think he enjoys all these things I plan that he's "forced" to attend.

In observance of rule number four, he often ignores me for long stretches of whatever trip we're on. Not in a rude way, but the distance is deliberate. Since I'm the one with the falling in love problem, I pretend like his indifference is for the best. And it is. It is.

We already spend almost all our time together between shared hotel rooms and driving in the truck. A bit of a separation during the day, even if we're on the same fun trip, is totally the right way to play things. Definitely. One hundred percent. And when he's off doing his own thing, I don't even miss him at all.

God, how have I become so co-dependent? It's not even that I'm in love with him, I just like having him around, enjoy his perspective, often so different from mine. He's good company, which, honestly, on that bus trip, I would have mocked myself for even considering the possibility.

But there it is. Blake Robinson is an excellent travel companion. Through Alberta, Saskatchewan, Manitoba, and now on Manitoulin Island in Ontario, he's been the perfect blend of serious and fun.

Ugh. Why? Why does he have to be the perfect blend?

"Are you done in there thinking deep thoughts about which outfit to select?" Blake calls from the common room of our two-bedroom cabin. The additional bedroom everywhere must be costing him a fortune, but he never lets me pay half.

Thirty dollars seems to be the going rate—the only rate he'll grudgingly accept, and even then, I've had to sneak it into pockets or stuff it in his wallet or a compartment of his backpack. When he inevitably finds it, a hint of a smile will touch his lips, and he'll shake his head.

And inside I'll melt a little.

But just a little. Not too much. A completely bearable amount of liquid on the floor at his feet.

I take one last look at myself in the mirror, and I grab my shawl off the bed to join him in the common area. My crop top and shorts aren't exactly modest, but the Indigenous woman at the convenience store assured me that when it's this hot, no one will look twice at my outfit.

"Ta-da," I say, stepping out into the common area.

Blake's gaze sweeps over me before meeting my eyes, and I know exactly what he's thinking. Could read him like the GPS maps I've become so familiar with.

"I have a shawl." I wave it as evidence.

"I didn't say anything." Blake holds up his hands. "Commenting on each other's outfit choices is a violation of rule sixty-eight, even if said outfit choice is a bit risqué for a Powwow when the website said to dress conservatively."

"It's like a hundred degrees out there," I say, plucking my purse. "One hundred degrees."

"Thirty degrees Celsius does not translate to one hundred degrees Fahrenheit."

"How would I know that? What does it translate to? Siri," I say into my phone as I open the door to leave, "what is thirty degrees Celsius in Fahrenheit?"

"I'm really starting to wonder if the American education system happens in a vacuum," Blake mutters from behind me as Siri says it's only eighty-six degrees Fahrenheit.

"Besides," I say, ignoring his comment, "the website also said I just need to cover my shoulders to partake in the Inter-Tribal dances."

"You're going to dance?" Blake frowns. "Cultural appropriation—"

"Is not what I'm doing," I say as he locks the cabin door. "The Indigenous woman at the convenience store told me the Master of Ceremonies sometimes lets everyone dance. First Nations, white, doesn't matter."

"What did your BFF say about pictures?" He stuffs the key in his front pocket and then pats himself down, a characteristic gesture, as though he's constantly taking stock of everything he has on him. His day pack is on his back, probably stocked with things I'd never consider bringing and will later regret not having.

"Photos are only when they announce you can take them or if you specifically ask." Since documenting our trip has become one of Blake's quirks on our Canada wide tour, I knew enough to check with the clerk. Blake hasn't let me see many of the shots, but from what I've witnessed, he has an eye for an angle.

Where he carefully crafts his frames, I sketch the spontaneous moments that catch us by surprise—bears rising out of the foliage, the way someone's eyes spark just before they laugh, or the low swoop of an eagle across a lake. That book is often on the coffee table in the common area for me to pick up when the mood or memory strikes. Blake likes to flip through it and comment on the different ways we witness the same event. 

But there's also a collection of drawings I keep beside my bed that I hope Blake never gets his hands on. Might be more than one comment on how differently we see a few things after that. The idea started innocently enough, a few drawings of my travel companion, but they've morphed into something I'd be mortified for him to discover.

My own graphic romance novel with my favorite Canadian as the leading man. I might not be able to physically act on my impulses, but I've drawn them all. Every. Single. One. Pencil and paper are the least risky option since he ruled out my deliberate attempts at temptation.

"What are you thinking about?" he asks with a chuckle as we walk toward the athletic field where the Powwow is happening. "You're all flushed, and it's not that hot out yet."

"It is that hot," I say with a huff, but I avoid eye contact.

Doctor Robinson would spot how turned on I am with zero difficulty. Dilated pupils. Check. Flushed skin. Check. If he decided to dive a little lower, he'd discover even more clear evidence.

Then what would I tell him I've been thinking about? An erotic sketchbook starring him? There's being forward and then there's being a fool. Pretty sure he'd consider me an idiot for all my highly detailed fantasies when he has consistently treated me like his amusing little sister. At least he doesn't seem annoyed by me anymore. I'd question my own sanity if I was this hung up on someone who couldn't even tolerate me.

He doesn't contradict my temperature claim, instead he takes a mandarin orange out of the side pocket of his day pack and peels it as we walk.

"What is your obsession with oranges?" I ask, annoyed more with myself than him.

His fingers still for the briefest moment before he continues removing the tough outer layer. He breaks off a section and pops it into his mouth. "Sometimes I just get a craving," he says around the piece of orange. We have a whole bag of them on the counter in the cabin. "Nothing you ever crave?"

Definitely not going there.

"Nope," I say, popping my P. "Never."

"You're so full of shit," he says, and he separates the orange, offering me half. "I bet you've got four chocolate bars stuffed in your purse."

"I do not." I open it wide for him to peer into it. "They'd melt. I left them all in the cabin in the fridge. Any chocolate connoisseur understands that good chocolate cannot be wasted."

"Chocolate is never wasted around you," he says. "Wouldn't even have a chance to melt."

I smack him in the arm with the back of my hand.

"You are such a rule breaker," Blake says with a tut.

I swear he lives to tease me about my rules, but they're working. We're almost at the half-way point of our trip and neither of us has even hinted at quitting our arrangement. As far as I'm concerned, that makes me a god-damned genius.

Stay the course, and the other half of the trip should be just as easy-breezy. The rules can be broken, the important part is acknowledging that they should exist. Smartest woman alive.

The Nanny is going into Paid Stories. I don't have a firm date, but if it's a favourite, or you wanted to purchase any of the bonus chapters still as a one-off, I'd consider making that a reading priority. I don't expect to have a lot of notice when it enters.

Update: Friday

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