EVEREST
She’s real.
Not just “real” like standing-here-breathing real. Real like her smile feels like it was aimed straight at me. Like maybe I didn’t hallucinate her into existence after all those nights with her on my screen and my hand wrapped around?—
Nope. Not thinking about that right now.
Not while she’s three feet away in a corset the color of cotton candy and a skirt that should be illegal in at least seventeen states.
“Want one?” she asks, holding up a pink puff on a paper stick.
I nod, but I don’t reach for it.
She tears off a piece and holds it out to me. I lean in, open my mouth, and she feeds it to me like it’s nothing. Like we do this all the time. Like this isn’t the first moment of a dream I’m not ready to wake up from.
We end up walking side by side, not touching, but close enough our arms almost brush. She tells me about how she bribed the Ferris wheel operator to play dumb at the top, howshe likes to stage her scenes for maximum drama, and how she once filmed an entire orgasm while slow-licking an ice cream cone. I think she’s joking, but she also says it with the kind of confidence that makes me believe her.
I laugh too much. It’s like my body doesn’t know what to do with all the nerves and the adrenaline and the fact that she smells like marshmallows and cream.
We share a pretzel. She rips it in half and hands me the bigger piece without comment. I try not to stare at her mouth as she licks salt off her thumb, but it’s basically a lost cause.
She catches me. Smirks. “See something you like?”
“Everything,” I say, and immediately want to die.Jesus Christ. Pull it together, man.
But she grins. Like maybe she liked hearing it.
We stop near the ring toss booth. Music blares from the speakers above us—some overproduced pop remix—and kids run past in a blur of sugar highs. She looks around like she’s trying to decide if she wants to say something or keep pretending this is totally casual.
She picks the latter.
“So,” she says, eyeing the Ferris wheel. “I need to crash something.”
“What?”
She points at the bumper cars.
“Seriously?”
“I have rage, Everest. Let me work through it constructively.”
“Constructive vehicular assault. Got it.”
We head toward the ride, and my stomach is doing that thing where it flips and tangles itself in knots. She’s so close I can smell her—marshmellows and lime, like candy spiked with tequila. Her arm brushes mine as we wait in line, and I don’t even try to pretend I’m not affected.
“You any good at driving?” I ask.
She lifts a brow. “I’m great at making things wet. Does that count?”
I choke on air. She grins like she knows exactly what she’s doing.
When it’s our turn, she darts to the pink car and gestures like she’s already claimed it. “This one’s mine.”
I get in the blue one beside her, and the second the ride starts, she slams into me so hard I swear my brain shifts in my skull.
“Oh, it’s on,” I mutter, gripping the wheel like I’m going to war.
We chase each other around the little rink. She’s relentless—fast, aggressive, laughing so hard she snorts. I can’t stop smiling. She rams into me again, then throws her head back in a fit of giggles that makes my entire chest ache.
