I do not take the dare to nibble Xander’s neck, though.
“What are we doing?” I say instead, and he turns to look at me, a lingering smile on face.
Then, he leans in. I want to say that I remain completely frozen. I want to say that I will not kiss Xander. I want to say that dating is the death of lust. But I can’t. Because I feel myself leaning in.
Instead of meeting my lips, though, he pushes on the door behind me I didn’t realize I was leaning on, and we fallintothe haunted house.
Nope, I am not going to make out with Xander against the haunted house.
“I call this the private tour,” Xander says, as he spins me around. Now I’m the one leading the way in this total darkness.
“Xander?” I say, wondering where he is.
“Here,” he says. His voice is next to me.
I feel his fingers interlace with mine, and then he starts leading me farther into the Haunted House. With our vision now lacking, my body focuses all its attention on the other senses available. Xander’s signature scent mixes in with the smoke machine used for spooky effects. I’m sure the soundtrack is a Spotify playlist called “Murder House.”
Every single nerve ending in my body has migrated to my fingers that are intertwined with Xander’s. Sure, we’ve held hands when pretending to be a couple at the sleep study, but there’s something more intimate when you wind your fingers around each other’s. There’s more surface area to touch.
A spine-chilling scream echoes through the house. An evil cackle erupts. Xander wraps his fingers around mine even tighter as he steers me to the right, past a skeleton that plunges from the ceiling, without flinching.
“Should I be worried that you seem to know your way around a haunted house in complete darkness?” I ask.
“My best friend worked in one during our summer break when we were sixteen. He snuck us in all summer.”
I did not expect that answer.
“So not because you take all your dates here to be scared horny?” I tease.
“Busted,” he says, deadpan. “Is it working?”
“Totally,” I say, sarcastic to hide that I am finding this groping around in the dark kinda hot.
“Tell me, what do you do for fun in your summer breaks?” he says, steering the conversation back to the theme of this date, it seems. Fun.
“Whatdon’tI do?” I say, reminiscing about all the summers Em and I have spent together. I feel the faintest squeeze of my hand, reminding me that sharing is caring.
“Last year, Em and I took a self-defense class.”
“Is that how you flipped me the other day?” he says, amusement in his tone.
“Ummhmm,” I say, willing my mind not to remember how it felt to have our groins completely smashed into each other.
“What else?”
“Another summer, Em and I entered a salsa dance competition and won a month’s supply of margaritas,” I say. I leave out the part that every time I took a sip of the bloody thing, I thought about the first time I had one. The night I met him.
“A perfect victory,” he mutters, his playfulness toned down. Is he thinking about the night we met? Don’t know. Don’t care.
“And a very rowdy summer,” I say, trying to bring the F! U! N!
“Ummhmm,” he says, lost in his own thoughts. My turn to give him the faintest squeeze.
“What about you now? Your inability to lead us through this Haunted House clearly shows you do not attend carnivals like you used to. Are lawyers allowed to have fun?” I say, elbowing him gently.
“Lawyers are. Insomniacs not so much,” he says, and the image of Xander front and center at a Cardi B concert flashes in my mind.
“But you like music?”
