I pull the flaming marshmallow from the firepit, and she leans in to blow out the flame, her lips forming a perfect O.
“No way am I eating that.”
“Some people actually prefer them this way.” She takes the skewer from my hand, slides the marshmallow off the end, and tosses it into the fire. “But I’m pretty sure they have sad, miserable little tastebuds.”
“No doubt.” Why else would they choose to eat something that is literally burned to a crisp?
Lucy threads two more marshmallows onto the skewer and hands it back.
“Let me show you how to do it properly.”
She takes my hand in hers and guides it into position, the marshmallows hovering over the flame. Her hands are soft and gentle, her skin warm against my own heated flesh. This is a terrible idea. Touching like this. Her delicate fingers twining with mine as she rotates the skewer.
“Nice and easy.” Her words are a breathy whisper compared to the crackling fire. I turn to study her, taking in the soft lines of her face, the tiny brown mole on her right cheek, just above her mouth. Her full lips, the perfect Cupid’s bow. “You can’t rush perfection.”
No, you really fucking can’t.
But even at a turtle’s pace, I’m not sure I’ll last two weeks.
Chapter Thirteen
Lucy
Twelve days to Santa Monica
“I swear it’s like we stepped back in time.” Doc’s Soda Fountain is exactly like the pictures I saw on the internet, right down to the red-and-white striped awning out front. I can almost imagine it’s 1955 as I scan the soda fountain, admiring the long, marble-topped counter and old-fashioned cabinets holding dozens of antique glasses. “I’m going to get a Cherry Coke.” I pause, sliding the menu across the table. “Want to share a banana split?”
“For breakfast?” Miles stares at me like I’ve just asked if he wants to breed prize steer. “It’s ten o’clock in the morning.”
“So?” I roll my eyes so hard I get a glimpse of my spine. “We’re here now.”
And I’m not leaving without my handcrafted soda. Or my banana split.
Miles must sense my resolve, because he shakes his head. “What the hell. At least it has fruit in it.”
I reach across the table and pat his hand. “That’s the spirit.”
We place our order when the server returns, and I scoot my chair around to Miles’s side of the table so I can watch the soda jerk work.
“Do you think he has a cheat sheet back there to help him remember all the drink recipes?” I ask, resting my chin in my hand.
“No clue.”
I turn to face him. “Well, aren’t you a Chatty Cathy this morning.”
Four nights without proper sleep will do that to a person.
Now that I’m thinking about it, the skin around his eyes looks a little puffy.
Guilt rears its ugly head, and I promise to oil Gizmo’s wheel—right after I win the bet.
“Remind me again what we’re doing today?” Miles says, stifling a yawn.
“Seriously?” I groan. We just talked about this last night. Not twelve hours ago. “Why do I even bother?”
I swear, Gizmo has a longer attention span than Miles.
“After breakfast, we’re going to Henry’s Rabbit Ranch in Staunton. And then we’ll hit the Pink Elephant in Livingston, followed by the world’s largest catsup bottle—”
