She marks down some spaces on the paper and says, “Okay, your turn.”
I study the six-letter word. Glance up at her. Then back at the paper. I grip my chin and say, “O.”
Her eyes flash to mine, they’re lit up with humor as she marks O as the first letter.
Smiling widely now, I say, “M.”
“You know.” She tosses the pen at me.
“Orgasm.” When she rolls her eyes, I say, “You’re not the only one good at this game.”
“It seems as though we’re both perverts.” She presses her hand to her chest. “I’m uncultured. What’s your excuse?”
“Uncultured?” I laugh. “What makes you uncultured?”
She rubs her fingers together. “I didn’t grow up with money.”
“Money has nothing to do with it. Some of the richest people are uncultured swine. Complete assholes. Money has nothing to do with it.”
“Oh, then tell me, what makes a cultured person?”
“Your heart. Your mind. Your soul. It has nothing to do with status and everything to do with who you are as a person.”
Thoughtfully, she tilts her head to the side. “So, based off those criteria, would you say I’m cultured?”
Giving her a hard time, I say, “Well, your heart is beautiful. Your soul is spotted with black, but overall, a kind one, and, well, your mind . . . that’s all kinds of fucked up.”
Her mouth drops open in amusement as she stands from her seat and charges toward me. I don’t flinch. When she reaches out to poke me with her rose-colored nail, I take her hand and pull her forward so she’s forced to sit on my lap.
She playfully fights me, poking me all over my chest. “I’ll show you a spotted-black soul.”
I chuckle and gain hold of her hands, only to pin them at her side.
“Let go of me at once. I’m attempting to prove a point to you.”
“What are you going to do? Poke me to death?”
“To death seems a bit extreme, don’t you think, Huxley?” She arches a brow. “A bit dramatic.”
“You’re the one who came over here with your fingers. How am I supposed to know what you’re doing?”
“So, your first inclination is that I’m going to poke you to death . . . to death, Huxley.”
I shrug. “You did harbor some strong hate for me at the beginning.”
“Yeah, at the beginning, but not anymore.”
My lips turn up in a grin. “Not anymore, huh?”
She rolls her eyes and attempts to get off my lap. “I’m not here to boost your ego.”
I keep her firmly in place. “I’d never expect you to. Now cutting it down, that’s another thing.”
“Someone has to keep you grounded.”
“You do a damn good job at it.”
“Would you say I’m the best at it?”
I release her hands and rest my palm on her thigh. She doesn’t flee, but stays in place, which I fucking like. “Between you and my brothers, it’s a tough competition, but I think you edge them out.”
“I shall wear my medal with honor.”
“Mr. Cane,” the pilot says over the speaker. “We’ll be landing shortly. Please take your seat and buckle up.”
I pat Lottie’s leg. “Are you ready for this?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t think so, but it doesn’t look like I have time to prepare myself.” Before she gets off my lap, she reaches out and cups my cheek. Her facial features turn soft, endearing, as she says, “If I forget to say it tonight, thank you, Huxley. Thank you so much for this. You’re really making a dream of mine come true.”
I place my hand on hers and move it to my mouth to kiss her palm. “You’re welcome, Lottie.”
“I’m sweating.”
“What?” I laugh. “What do you mean you’re sweating?”
We’re standing in line, waiting to enter the concert hall, and this is the first thing she’s said to me since we left the car after finishing off our donuts. We shared a burger and fries at Killer Burger, opting for the peanut butter burger, before we headed over to Voodoo Doughnut and each got a donut, but split them, so we could have a taste of each. Lottie’s idea. But she’s been silent ever since the donuts were consumed. I asked her a question at one point, but she didn’t answer, instead, continued to stare out the window. I wasn’t sure what was going through her head, so I chose to just let her have her peace.
Holding on tightly to my hand, she leans in close to me and says, “I’m so excited, Hux. I’m sweaty. I’m nervous. My body doesn’t know what to do with itself.”
I like it when she calls me Hux. It sounds good coming from her lips.
“Are you going to fangirl out?”
“Uh, yeah,” she says with confidence. “If you didn’t expect that, you clearly don’t know me at all. And I expect you to fangirl out as well.”
“I’ll get my girly scream ready.”
She chuckles. “What I wouldn’t give to hear it.” The doors open and the crowd grows closer as people begin to filter into the vintage Art Deco building.
“Before we head in, want to take a picture with the marquee?” I ask. She’s nervous, so she might say no.
“Oh, great idea,” she answers.
Thank fuck.
I take my phone from my pocket and switch it to camera mode. Lottie curls against my side and places her hand on my chest, and I angle the phone just right to capture my height, her height, and the marquee above us.
Once I take a few, I say, “I’ll text you the best one.”
“Please do. I want to send one to my mom. She’s going to freak out.”
“Is she a Fleetwood Mac fan too?” I pocket my phone as we move closer to the building.
“Yes. She was the one who introduced me to their music, basically to all the music I love.”
“If I knew, I would’ve invited her as well.”
“Stop. It’s better like this, making her jealous.” Lottie smiles, and . . . fuck . . . I like that smile. I’m obsessed with that smile.
I’m obsessed with her.
“Daughter of the year.”
“I think so.” She bumps my shoulder with hers. “What about your brothers? Are they jealous?”
“They don’t know I’m here.”
“Really?” she asks, surprised. “You didn’t tell them?”
I shake my head. “No.”
She pauses and asks, “Didn’t want them to know about me?”
I clutch her hand tighter to ease any doubts that might be popping up in her head. “Didn’t want to hear their I-told-you-so’s.”
“What do you mean?” she asks, confused.
This is not the place I want to have this conversation, in a throng of people, but thankfully, we’re at the front of the line so I can press pause on my answer as I hand the ticket attendant our tickets. Once they’re scanned, we walk into the concert hall. From the outside, it stands above the rest, with its gothic-style columns surrounding the marquee, but on the inside, it’s decked out in gold wallpaper from floor to ceiling. Pops of a dusty sky-blue are carved into the pillars surrounding the lobby, while the floors are a colorfully glazed tile that must be original to its era of build. Breathtaking. Art Deco at its finest.
“Do you want a drink?” I ask her as we move toward a concession stand.
“Uh, sure,” she answers quietly, and I know the shift in her mood is from the question she asked that went unanswered.
I work her through the crowd and find a concession stand that just opened. I order us both a beer, and then, with the drinks in hand, I guide her to our seats, which are on the first row of the mezzanine level, dead center. The perfect view, in my opinion. Just close enough, but not so close that we’re craning our necks.
“Wow, these are great seats,” she says.
“Yeah, I’m pleased with them.”
She takes a seat, and once she’s settled, I hand her a beer and then take a seat as well, being sure to turn toward her. Everyone is still filtering in to their seats so I take this opportunity to elaborate on my answer.