Risking It

by Angela Quarles

  A weight lifts from my shoulders.

  “So what was the fist pump for?” His voice still has the sexy, stubbly sound of sleep.

  Jeez-oh-man. “Um. You know, just excited to start the morning.”

  He scoffs. “No, you’re not. I’ve never seen someone less interested in the start of their own trip.”

  I straighten and paste on a smile. “I’m excited. I am. This is my…excitement voice and face. Trust me.”

  He looks at me, both eyebrows raised. “Okay. Recalibrating.” He thumbs the down arrow.

  “Huh? Never mind. Let’s start over. Sleep well?”

  He chuckles and leans against the wall. “Yeah.” And oddly, his voice is laced with surprise. “So what’s on today’s agenda? Why are we all the way out in Arcadia?”

  I was wondering when he’d realize where we were. The elevator dings, and we step aboard. “After breakfast, we’ll head to Solomon’s Castle, which is nearby.”

  His forehead wrinkles. “What’s that?” He pushes the button for the lobby.

  “I don’t know, actually.”

  He stops rocking back and forth and latches his gaze on mine. “For real?”

  God, the full force of his stare is… It’s friggin’ unnerving. “Yeah.”

  The ding of an incoming text fills the confines of the elevator just as it stops on the second floor. I pull up my phone and move aside for a family of three getting on. It’s a text from Claire:

  Hey girl. I want details! How’d the penis burning go?

  She ends it with a flame emoji and a hotdog. I stifle a snort, and my gaze darts to Aiden. Jeez, I can feel the heat in my cheeks. He smiles back, then hits the close button.

  He can’t see the screen. He can’t see the screen. I repeat this to myself as I grip my phone, feeling as if my embarrassment is another entity in the elevator, impossible for him to miss. I scoot to the back of the elevator and type out:

  Effigy successfully burned

  The doors open on the lobby, and we follow the family out and turn left for the continental breakfast area. I put my phone away. It beeps again with another text, but I ignore it. Whatever Claire’s sent can wait a sec. Aiden and I split up to peruse our choices. I snag a bowl of oatmeal and layer brown sugar and pecans and raisins on that sucker. Compensating? Maybe. It’s my oatmeal. I also grab a banana, along with OJ and hot tea, and head over to a two-top.

  Aiden’s still piling his plate high, so I pull out my phone.

  Good job. I’ll call you tonight to hear how your day went. OK?

  I tap out an agreement. Aiden plops down two plates filled with bacon, eggs, a waffle, and Lord knows what else. A few pieces of fruit stand bravely, surrounded by the sea of protein and gluten. He swings his leg over the back of the chair and sits. I shouldn’t find it sexy, but I do.

  After he downs an impressive amount of food, he looks up. The sunlight streaming through the window hits him at such an angle the faint, pale hairs on his cheeks are visible, which then changes to darker stubble—almost reddish—along his jaw.

  The sunlight’s also doing its thing to his light-brown eyes, making them lighter, and I can make out flecks of gold.

  “So…a castle, huh?” he asks, pulling me out of my embarrassing frolic across the features of his face.

  Screw it. Full-on dork it is. He sees me as a weirdo, book nerd, right? So why not confess.

  He’ll be turned off even more, and that’d be a good thing.

  “Yeah, this trip is to help me find myself.” Who knows, maybe talking freely will prove to myself that we’re just friends and only friends.

  “You’re lost?”

  “Ha. Funny.” I put down my mug of tea. “No. You know Claire, from the women’s team? She feels like I need to”—I hold up my fingers and make air quotes—“get out of my shell, and she’s the organizer and instigator of this trip. Complete with all the stops and the timeline. I’m supposed to journal it and live in the moment, that kind of crap.”

  I expect him to crack a joke. Heck, three sentences back I expected him to lose eye focus. Instead, he’s listened solemnly to the whole recital. Of course, I leave out that he’s one of the main reasons for Claire goading me into this.

  He leans back, both eyebrows up. “So the first stop’s Solomon’s Castle. What’ll we find there?”

  I fiddle with my unused knife, twirling it back and forth, back and forth, on the smooth table top. “Honestly? I don’t know. I meant to Google it when I got into the room last night and then I, er, forgot.”

  More like I was hand-flapping flustered about having him right next door, agonizing whether to play it cool and invite him over to watch a movie or play cards or…something. Then I marched around the room chanting, “Stupidstupidstupid.” Then I chastised myself for even engaging in all these mental gymnastics. Especially because he was probably conked out already with nary a thought about me on the other side of a door.

  I look up.

  “So we’ll both be surprised.” He gives a wide grin and eats a whole piece of bacon.

  “Yeah.”

  My decision to not care what I say or do feels like the right one—because he’s not worth the mental energy—but I’m feeling strangely vulnerable. As if I’m here, with him, without any shield, and he’s calmly sitting there, listening, accepting.

  To keep going with the we’re-just-friends convo, I ask, “You guys ready for your game? It’s the playoffs, right?” Hopefully, this’ll push his intense focus off me.

  “Yep.” He wipes his mouth with a napkin. “Southeast Division. Whoever wins goes to the national championships in Chicago. It’ll be tough competition, but we have an advantage—it’s such a new sport, everyone playing is on the same skill level.”

  “So you stand a good chance?”

  He props his elbows on the table and leans in. “That’s what we’re hoping.”

  Just that little movement puts him closer in my space, and my stomach gets all swoopy again, especially because I can now catch a whiff of his masculine scent. By now, he’s inhaled everything on his two plates, and I’m looking at his flat stomach hidden by his gray T-shirt and wondering where the heck he puts it all. But I guess that’s what a lot of exercise does for ya.

  How am I going to resist him?

  Aiden

  At breakfast, I was going to ask Jane about bailing, honest, but first I was on a mission to fill my belly, and then I was enjoying our casual, easygoing conversation. Like the night we met, we clicked, conversation flowed, and I wasn’t using most of my energy to charm and deflect.

  And fuck me, but I didn’t want to jinx our reacquired ease. Not again anyway. Several weeks ago at her place, I’d woken up, and there was an awkwardness usually only experienced when I sleep with a woman. A situation I know how to handle. Usually by being crystal clear from the get-go what we both want out of our night together.

  Except, this time, while we did sleep together, it was only in the literal sense. No sex.

  So why the awkwardness?

  Who knows, but that night I took leave of my senses, and I don’t know if I’ll ever get them back.

  Now I’m up in my room, stuffing the few things I’d taken out of my bag back into it. Jane had some things to do downstairs before we left, and I’m to meet her where we had breakfast. I didn’t argue. It’s her trip. I throw a dollar on the bureau for the maid, sling the duffel bag onto my shoulder, and march to the door. I grip the handle.

  Fuck it—I decided my plan last night, didn’t I? When we get to the car, I’ll ask Jane to drop me off at the MegaBus stop in Tampa after the castle thing.

  I push out the door and head to the elevator bank. Oddly, that decision doesn’t sit as well as I thought it would.

  I use the alone time to check in with Stuart. “How’d it go last night?” I ask as soon as he answers. “Did the fan hold up?” I hit the down button.

  “Like a champ. Good receipts too.”

  “Good to hear. Call me if anything comes
up, okay?”

  “Will do.”

  I’m about to hang up when he says, “Hey, did you collect a bar tab before you left?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Cuz we were sixty-five dollars over in cash.”

  I pause on my way into the elevator. Well, that’s a pleasant change. Normally, my managers pocket the overage, because, you know, it costs me squat to operate the damn place and keep them employed.

  “Check with Mandy. I saw her with one of the regulars.”

  “Will do. We’ve got this. Enjoy your vacation, boss.”

  “Thanks.” I hang up and stare at my cell.

  Huh. Looks as if I found my dream bar manager.

  Soon enough, I’m downstairs, and I find Jane in the dining area, sitting at the same table, her suitcase alongside. On the table is her journal, and she’s staring at it, tapping a green pen against the table, mouth pursed.

  A new Polaroid’s pasted in, of the breakfast area, but nothing’s written next to it.

  “Ready?” I ask.

  “Yep. Let’s go.” She tosses her pens into her messenger bag and grabs her journal and suitcase handle.

  We stroll down the hall and out to the car in companionable silence. But as the daylight bathes us, and her warm presence fills the space beside me, I’m reluctant to ask about dropping me off in Tampa. Somehow, today feels different than last night’s sleep-deprived panic.

  We toss our bags into her trunk and slip inside her car, already warm from the morning sun.

  She tucks her journal into the space between the seats, puts her cell into its dash-holder, and plugs in the address for Solomon’s Castle. “Lots of small roads, but according to Google, we’ll be there in twenty-five minutes.” She slides her key into the ignition. “It opens at eleven, so that’ll be perfect.”

  She turns the key, and there’s a clicking noise. “Weird.” She tries again. On the third turn, it starts.

  “Does that happen a lot?”

  Frowning, she shifts the car into reverse and scans the rearview mirror. “No. This car’s normally pretty reliable.”

  “When’s the last time you replaced the battery?”

  “Last year, so it should be good.”

  Her car’s one of those dependable foreign models, but still I can’t help but worry. Maybe it was just a fluke. But now I can’t seem to open my mouth and ask about Tampa.

  Which is okay. We still have to go to this castle first, then head north. I’ll ask her then.

  Chapter 6

  Jane

  We’re in the middle of friggin’ nowhere.

  Thank God for GPS. The Google gods guide me through a series of turns along back roads lined on either side with swaths of flat cow-land, punctuated here and there with stubby bushes, and an occasional lone, scraggly tree.

  Earlier this morning, as I pasted in the requisite snapshot of where I stayed, I studied The Rules and found my loophole.

  Oh, Claire planned this trip well. But not well enough. I did some quick math with the miles between each designated nightly stop and smiled.

  By limiting my distance covered each day, she meant to force me to slow down and not zip through each stop.

  Fine.

  But I don’t have to spend that time at the sites. No lie, I did hop in my seat when I realized I can still zip through the sites, take a snapshot or two, write a few lines, then, fist pump, check in early at the hotel and still have my ideal vacation—curling up and reading.

  I glance at Aiden, who’s flipping through my phone’s playlist.

  The side bennie to my plan?

  Less time with him.

  Feeling comfortable for the first time since Claire handed me the gift-wrapped box, I relax and tap my fingers to the tune he’s queued up.

  Perfect. This will work out perfect. And I have a TBR pile of biblical proportions on my tablet.

  Not getting all worked up about what Aiden thinks of me was the right call. Because as the scenery cruises by and one tune spills into another, I’m not at all caring if we talk or not.

  Aiden’s an easygoing guy. I’ll give him that.

  It’s too bad he’s a playboy.

  Abruptly, the scenery switches to a dense wall of palmetto, more scraggly bushes, and old oaks dripping with Spanish moss. A hand-painted sign saying “Solomon’s Castle” in red block letters with an arrow pointing right appears.

  “You have arrived at your destination,” announces Google maps.

  Farther ahead, I pull into a marked-off parking area. All right. Let’s get this over with.

  My hand’s on the door handle, but his voice stops me. “Hold up.”

  I glance over, and I swear to all the swoony alpha heroes in the romances I’ve read that his eyes have that certain sparkle.

  Huh. Thought that was only in books.

  I raise a brow. I’m immune. I am.

  “You still in the dark on what this place is?”

  “Yep.” I figure I’ll find out soon enough. “You?”

  “Yep,” he says cheerily. “Let’s guess.”

  I roll my eyes, grab my journal and purse, and open the door. I want him to say—no, actually I expect him to say—you’re no fun.

  I’m ready for it, because I want to say, so badly, good.

  But he doesn’t. He jumps out and says, “Obviously, it’s gonna be a castle. Or is it? Maybe it’s supposed to be ironic, and it’s a grotto, and everyone knows it but wants to see why he thinks it’s a castle. Or maybe it’s castle-y in its grottoness.”

  Despite myself, I huff a breath of laughter. “A grotto? In the middle of Florida swampland?”

  “Okay, so not a grotto.” He shuts his door. “Maybe it’s a Swiss Family Robinson thing he’s got going on, with cypress trees and shit. That’d be cool.”

  “It’ll be a castle,” I say.

  In front of us, a decorative white metal gate stands open. Across the top of one gate is the word “Solomon’s” crafted in metal with a medieval-y font. The silhouette of a woman takes up part of the gate. The other gate’s similar but with a knight and the word “Castle.”

  Aiden jumps in front of the knight-half of the gate. “Take my pic.”

  Reluctantly, I pull out the Polaroid. He strikes a super-serious pose, one arm across his middle, the other arm’s elbow propped on his forearm. He grips his chin in a Thinking Man pose. I expect an eyebrow to cock, but instead both go up as if he’s surprised.

  I smile, line up the shot, then catch the film when it ejects on the other side.

  “Cool.” He grabs the almost-square, thick, plastic-y paper and shakes it.

  “That doesn’t actually speed things along, you know.”

  “Yep. But it’s fun to think it does,” he says and winks. He nods to another couple walking by us.

  Before I realize what I’m doing, I’m beside him, watching the blank, gray surface turn milky and slowly resolve into full color.

  Mistake. I accidentally get a whiff of his masculine scent warmed by the Florida sunshine, and all along my skin, prickles pop up and dance.

  I swear to God, my body gets all irrational when in his vicinity. As if there’s an invisible force that works on me when I get in range.

  But I ignore it, because what good does it do me? It’s not as if it matters. I’d be one more conquest. That is, if he even wanted me. Which clearly, he doesn’t.

  I focus on the snapshot. It’s a dorky shot, but dangit, it’s cute.

  His chuckle is low, and the deep tones sizzle all across my stupid skin—you know, the one that’s prickling already from his nearness. He hands it to me. “Let’s see this swamp castle.”

  I stick the photo into the back of the journal and follow him along the path.

  And then we stop as the building comes into view.

  “Not a grotto,” he says.

  “It is a castle,” I say.

  “Huh,” he grunts.

  We stand there because, yeah, in front of us is a two-story castle complet
e with turrets and stained-glass windows.

  But. Made of shiny reflective metal, like tinfoil. Not stone.

  Aiden rubs his hands together. “This has a story behind it.” He glances back at me, grins, and marches down the path.

  Before I realize it, I’ve pulled out the Polaroid. Careful to frame it so Aiden looks like one of the other visitors milling out front, I take a picture.

  I rush to catch up, but he stops by a life-sized white plaster horse on the side lawn. “Real brick, or just painted?” He points to its hooves.

  “Odd.” I stick the new Polaroid in the back of the journal and move closer. “And what a strange expression on his face.” His tongue—or is it his lower lip?—is protruding, giving him a dopey look. “He looks like a horse Don Quixote would ride.”

  Aiden holds his hand out and makes a give-it-here gesture at the camera. Folks don’t react to my literary references, so Aiden blipping right past it does not wound. It doesn’t. Some think I do it to be snobby, but they’re wrong. These things just pop out, and I regret it instantly.

  If this had been a real date with a guy I was interested in, I’d be kicking myself right now.

  Instead, I give an internal shrug and hand him the Polaroid. He waves me over to stand by the horse.

  I get up right next to it, and Aiden steps back to get me in range. “Say cheese,” he says, his mouth just visible below the camera.

  Right before he snaps the pic, something bubbles up inside me and makes me stick out my tongue in imitation of the horse.

  “Nice,” he deadpans.

  The distinct noise of a Polaroid follows, and the film shoots out.

  Again, I’m next to him, waiting, before I realize what I’ve done. It’s a good excuse, right? I’m only standing here to see the film develop, that’s all. I’m loving this excuse.

  When my goofy face swims into view next to the white horse, Aiden says, “Poor Rocinante. Forever tilting at windmills.”

  I swear to God, I hear the ole-timey record scratch in my mind. I’m standing here stock still while inside I’m going wait-wait-rewind-rewind, complete with expansive arm movements, that he just referenced the dang horse from Don Quixote, and he just gives the snapshot a flick.