Paisley finds me under the house, finishing the last tire. She’s wearing a white dress that hits just above her knees and ties at the back of her neck. Eyes on me, she says, “You’ve done a lot of pumping over the last twelve hours.”
Standing up straight, bike pump in hand, I search her face for a hint she’s making a sexual joke. Worse, that she somehow heard me last night despite the fisted hand I pressed against my mouth in an effort to be silent.
Paisley grabs a bike handle and swings her leg over, adjusting her dress so she can sit properly. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Madigan. First you accuse me of bringing a vibrator on this trip, and now you can’t handle hearing the word ‘pump’?”
She’s teasing me. I like it.
She continues. “I saw your bed deflated during the night. That made it easier for me to push under the bed when I got up this morning, but probably wasn’t so great for your sleep quality.”
I scratch my forehead with my thumb. “About that. Turns out I only got half a night of bad sleep.”
“Why is that?”
“I woke up in your bed this morning. I don’t actually remember climbing in. But, yeah. I woke up next to you.”
Her eyes scrunch closed. “I thought it was a dream. When I woke up, I assumed I’d dreamed it.”
“So you remember me getting in?”
She nods. “It’s hazy, but yes. You pulled back thecovers and climbed in. You didn’t say a word, but you”—her eyes flash, something dawning—“you pulled me into you.”
I’m shaking my head before she’s done with her sentence. “You suctioned yourself to me sometime during the night. I know because you were on my side of the bed when I woke up.”
Now she’s the one shaking her head. “Lies. All of it.”
I stare at her. She stares at me with the same determined expression I feel on my face. A stalemate.
“Agree to disagree?” I offer a hand.
She looks at it, turning her chin sharply. “Never.” She pushes off, pedaling over the driveway. Her knee-length white sundress flutters in the breeze she creates.
She looks cute as hell on the bike, ponytail swinging and sun shining down on her. Quickly, I pull my phone from my pocket and snap a pic. I’ll send it to Cecily later.
Swinging my leg over the green bike, I take off after her.
We head north, away from the beach. Soon the vegetation gives way to the live oaks, thick and green. Sunlight reaches through leaves, stretching around branches to dapple the path. Golf carts pass, each driver lifting a hand in hello.
I ride a foot behind Paisley, and a little to her left, so that I’m more in the road than she. She smiles as she rides, her face bright and open. Carefree and happy, Paisley leads the way, slowing as we approach a lawn.
I come to a stop beside her, my gaze lifting up up up until it reaches the top of the lighthouse in front of us.
“Old Baldy,” she announces. “It’s the oldest standinglighthouse in North Carolina. It’s been out of commission for a long time, but people can climb to the top.”
“Are we climbing it?”
“Another day,” Paisley says, repositioning her bike to get on the path. “Nauti Bowls awaits.”
In the middle of the island sits a row of shops. Clothing, café, grocery, wine, and Nauti Bowls. We slide our bikes into a rack out front, and I look around while Paisley walks ahead on the brick walkway. Sun soaks the front patio, dropping over potted plants bunched at the entrance.
Paisley waits with the door propped open, watching me. “I like watching you catalog everything you see.”
“I want to remember everything.” My gaze drops from the trees lurching overhead, finding Paisley. Her head tilts, the slightest tug of her mouth on the left side.
Everything. Especially the softness in Paisley’s gaze, the oceanic color of her eyes, the way her dress melts over her curves.
Pressing a hand flat on the open door above Paisley’s head, I wait for her to walk in the shop. She doesn’t. She spends a moment that feels more like ten standing under my gaze, close enough that her orange blossom scent washes over me.
She blinks, and the spell breaks. I nod for her to go into the store, and she pushes off the door, walking in ahead of me.
