The Real Deal

April leans in close to her. “I know, missy. But I’ve been on it a million times, and I like coasters more. So I’m claiming dibs on a seat partner.” She clasps her hand on my shoulder, a move that feels thoroughly possessive. And I’m completely okay with her owning me right now. “You girls go ride,” she says, shooing them away.

They head to amusement park hell, and I breathe a sigh of relief. “I hate Ferris wheels,” I admit.

She smiles softly. “I know.”

I raise an eyebrow. “How do you know?”

“Heath told me last night. So I didn’t want you to go on one,” she says as we walk toward the Wild ThunderCoaster.

“You did that for me?” I ask, something like wonder in my tone.

“Of course.”

It’s so small, but so big, and I stop in the middle of the park to drop a kiss to her lips. I press my forehead to hers, and I sigh. It’s hot and sticky, and the scent of cotton candy and fried dough wafts through the summer air. Nearby all the members of April’s family and the Moores, too, are spinning in the sky, or shooting down hills, or riding on swings, mirroring the cascade of emotions inside me. It’s only been a few days with her, and I should not feel this way, but my heart pounds harder, my bones hum, and I can’t get enough of her.

She wraps her arms around my neck and tilts her face up at me. “How about a ‘just because’?” she asks.

I kiss her in the park, just because. It lasts longer than an amusement park kiss should, but it’s not long enough, because I want more of her.

We pull apart when a deep male voice lands on my ears. “You guys want to ride the roller coaster with us?”

I turn to see Dean with his triplet brothers.

“Sure,” April says, and all things considered, riding a roller coaster with four dudes versus hovering midair above the park in a Ferris wheel is a no-brainer. We join them, chatting about rides and sports and the weather as we queue for the Wild ThunderCoaster, waiting near the station where the ride begins. Once the cars arrive, April and I hop in next to each other near the back. The two-hundred-foot climb under the hot noon sun and the groaning of metal against metal give me something to focus on besides this gnawing desire to have more of her. Not just more physically, but emotionally, too.

Because I do want her. More than I’ve ever wanted anyone.

And I don’t know what to do about that.

But then we reach the apex, and I don’t care about anything but the sheer exhilaration of raising my arms high in the air and shouting as we scream downhill at rocket speed. April’s shrieks burst through the air, and as we rattle up another hill, I’m reminded yet again of sounds I want to hear her make. Trouble is, there’s the little problem of our cozy room tucked amidst rooms full of family members. How the hell do guests at a B and B get it on? There’s no more time to linger on possibilities, since we zip into a loop-the-loop and the ride corkscrews upside down. We whip around another curve, race up a short hill, then slalom down one final descent before we pull back into the station, breath coming fast, eyes wide.

April’s hair is a wild mess. It’s a look she wears well. “Want to go again?”

There’s no other answer but yes. As we wait in the line, the sun baking us, we chat with Dean and his brothers to pass the time. I learn the names of the big boys. They’re Steve, Paul, and Henry, but I still prefer to think of them as Huey, Louie, and Dewey. I get to know Dean and his work a little better. He mentions a few commercials he’s worked on, including one with a talking toaster. “It was good, but we wanted the toaster to go deeper,” he says, sounding a bit bummed.

“Toasters can be notoriously shallow,” I say, deadpan.

We chat some more, and I decide to let go of my jealousy. After all, I’m the guy who had his hands all over April last night. Sure, a part of me still thinks she’s better off with a guy like him. Someone wildly successful in his job. She probably deserves a man who has his act together like Dean.

But even so, that’s not enough for me to back away.

Soon, we reboard the Wild ThunderCoaster.

As we chug up the first climb, I survey the hills in the distance, lush with trees. A wickedly brilliant idea pops in front of me, fully formed. I smile to myself.

April’s shrieks sound like foreshadowing as I put my plan together.

We ride again and again, and I’m more sure than ever of what needs to happen when we leave this park.

After the fourth time, we weave through the exits and circle around to the front of the ride. April stops in her tracks, peering in the distance to see Emma and Libby leaning over a trash bin, revisiting their smoothies again as they heave them up and out of their bodies.

“I was right. Those Ferris wheels are the devil,” I say to April.

*

Back at the inn, as parents tend to temporarily sick kids, I grab a few supplies, stuff them into my backpack, and tell April I have an afternoon activity for us. She wiggles her eyebrows. “Will I like this activity?”

My voice goes low and smoky. “If I’m doing it right, you’ll love it.”

We head downstairs, and I take her hand in mine.

I didn’t hope for the girls to be sick, but the lull in the action is just what I was looking for. We let her mom know that we’re going for a walk into town.

“See you for supper,” Pamela says from the kitchen as she and her husband prep for the meal. “Can you bring me a pepper on the way back?”

“Consider it done.”

That’s enough to avoid an inquisition.

When we reach the sidewalk and our stride places us several feet away, April doesn’t even ask where we’re headed. I’m not sure if she knows, or if she trusts me. I like to think it’s the latter, especially since she says, “Remember that time you whisked me away and took me someplace wild and unexpected?”

“That was a fun afternoon. Do you think this one will compare?”

“Guess we’ll find out.”

Fifteen minutes later, we’re at the base of a tree in her family’s eerily quiet backyard.

There’s an afternoon hush in the air. The sense that we’re well and truly alone. No one’s around. Only the birds can hear us. We climb the built-in ladder to April’s Tree House.





Chapter Thirty-three

April

The tree house has been baking for days. Inside this ten-by-ten-foot childhood paradise of mine, it’s hot and, unfortunately, stuffy. I’ve no idea when anyone was last in here. It has that creaky, unoccupied-in-ages feel to it. But it boasts two fantastic windows, so I open the shutters to the outside, letting a warm breeze inside to get some air moving. The fading afternoon sun casts long shadows across the trees and the yard as I peer into my one-time stomping grounds.

As a kid, I spent hours upon hours in this little tree house. I painted here; drew reams upon reams of creatures, animals, and humans; dragged dog-eared paperbacks and sandwiches up with me; and ate lunch by myself.

I did everything here.

Except one thing.

That’s about to change. I shiver, even though it’s not cold. Nerves shimmy over my skin. As I stare out the open window, I will them to go away. I’ve had sex before, plenty of times, but something feels vastly different about sleeping with Theo. My heart thumps with a wild ache to get closer to him.

I inhale sharply, imagining the oxygen calming my fears. I’m not afraid of him. I’m afraid of how good it will be to take him inside me, and of how much harder it will be to pretend that what’s happening between us isn’t huge.

I turn around. Theo spreads a thin blanket over the wood floor.

I’m on my knees, and I tug at my peach tank top, sticking to my skin in the heat. He pushes a floppy mess of hair off his forehead.

I giggle. “It’s really hot up here.”

He laughs. “It sure is. Want to leave?”

He’s on his knees, too, and I grab the neck of his shirt, yanking him close. “Not a chance.”

I kiss him, and the nerves vanish entirely. This kiss is electric. It’s like a storm cloud hovering on the horizon, gray and swollen, ready to burst with rain and drench us all. I want to get caught in a downpour with him. To kiss in a way that’s beyond urgent, that disregards the weather, the world, everything.