“I’m guessing no. The guy who doesn’t believe in love definitely isn’t going to believe in wishes. Or in luck.”
Alex snorts.
“Shooting stars are just rocks hitting the earth’s atmosphere,” he says. “They look pretty, but there’s no magic involved.”
“So why’d you get so excited when you saw one?”
“I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did. You jumped right out of your seat. You were like a little kid at Christmas. So maybe there’s hope for you yet. Maybe youdohave a heart somewhere in there after all.”
“Of course I have a heart, Summer,” he says, so quietly I almost miss it. “Of course I do.”
I turn to face him, feeling like I’ve said something wrong, but unable to figure out quite what it is.
“Hey, you didn’t tell me what it was that’s got you sitting on your balcony in the middle of the night,” I say. “The thing that’s on your mind?”
He hesitates.
“Motorcycles,” he says thoughtfully. “I’ve been thinking about motorcycles.”
“Motorcycles? Er, are you feeling okay? Because that’s kind of a weird thing to keep someone up at night. Even someone as strange as you.”
“You said you wanted to ride one,” Alex replies, ignoring me. “In your diary. It was one of the resolutions, remember?”
“Oh. Yeah. But that’s one of the ones I’m happynotto do,” I tell him. “It was just a stupid, teenage idea of something that would make me ‘cool’. I think Jamie used to talk about how he wanted to own a motorcycle someday; that’s probably why I wrote it. It’s not like it’s some deeply cherished ambition of mine.”
“Maybe not,” says Alex, “But you want to complete the list, don’t you? Well, I can’t provide a motorcycle — and I’m not sure it would be a good idea for you anyway, given how clumsy you can be — but I did see a sign for a quad bike experience earlier today. Maybe we could do that instead?”
“We? You mean you’d come with me?”
He hesitates for just a moment.
“Well, yeah, I guess. If you want me to? I quite fancy having the opportunity to be ‘cool’ myself, if I’m honest.”
“Oh, you don’t have to worry about that,” I tell him. “You’re already cool. You don’t need a motorcycle. In fact, you probably shouldn’t get on one, because then you wouldn’t just be a hot, moody guy; you’d be a hot, moody guyon a motorcycle. That might be too much for some people.”
“Hold on,” he says, smirking. “Did I hear that right? Did you just call mehot?”
“No! I mean, yes. But I wasn’t speaking formyself,” I say quickly. “I just meant that’s how other people would see you.”
“Whereasyousee me as ‘arrogant and upmyself’?”
“I already apologized for that,” I point out. “But I shouldn’t have said it in the first place, so, you know, sorry. Again.”
I’m babbling again. It’s because he’s standing so close to me — and being so unexpectedlyniceto me — that it would be very easy to forget I spent the first couple of days of this triphatingthe guy.
But I don’t think I hate him anymore.
And heisreally hot, to be fair.
“You’re forgiven,” he says, his voice serious as he looks down at me, close enough to touch. The atmosphere between us is suddenly charged, and I shiver, as much from the proximity to this gorgeous man standing next to me as from the cold.
“You should get yourself inside,” Alex says immediately. “It’s freezing out here once the sun goes down. And you’re… well, not exactly dressed for it.”
“Oh. Okay,” I reply, fighting back an unexpected wave of disappointment. “It is getting late, I suppose.”
I linger on the balcony, watching as he efficiently clears up his champagne glass and picks up the empty bottle.
