The space is small, sharing a pass-through with the sundries shop next door, and smells of hazelnut and sugar. A long butcher block counter is loaded withindividually wrapped baked goods, and two hanging signs list the specialty drinks and bowls.
“What do you want?” I ask Paisley. She’s swaying beside me, hands clasped as she reads the menu.
“Hmm. The Original sounds good. You?”
“Two Originals, please,” I say to the girl behind the counter, removing my wallet from my back pocket.
“I can get mine,” Paisley says, stepping in closer.
I hand over cash and look down to Paisley. “On dates, I pay. Yes, you’re independent. No, you don’t need me to buy you stuff. But if I’m your boyfriend, I’m paying. End of story.”
She thinks for a second, grins, and says happily, “Okay.”
I was expecting more of a fight, and I’m relieved not to be getting one.
We take our açai bowls to the sunny patio. I finish mine in record time, but Paisley eats slowly. She places the spoon in her mouth, leans back in her seat with her eyes closed and the sun spilling over her, and sighs contentedly as she pulls the spoon from her mouth.
At this point, it hurts. Her beauty might actually be painful. I might be begging for mercy before the week is over.
“Everything tastes better here,” she says, opening her eyes and nudging the half-empty paper cup on the table. “Everything feels better here. It’s vacation, but it’s home, too. That’s how it felt every summer. I was visiting, but the island was mine.” A blush spreads over her face. “That probably sounds ridiculous. Too emotional.”
“If you want to talk about emotions, I’m your guy.” Itake her leftover cup, motioning with the silent questioncan I finish this?Paisley nods. “Emotions are my thing, Ace. I like them big, I like them small, I like them messy, I like them all.”
A zip of laughter bursts from her. “Are you quoting Dr. Seuss?”
I polish off her bowl, saying, “I’m quoting Klein Madigan.”
She pushes her sandaled foot against mine. “That guy sounds like he means what he says.”
Stacking our cups, I toss them in a nearby trash and hold out a hand to help Paisley up from her seat. “He does.”
Paisley places her hand in my grasp, allowing me to hold it while she stands. I’d like to keep holding it, but we don’t have an audience. Nobody for whom we need to convince of anything.
“Ready to continue the tour?” I ask, pulling Paisley’s bike from the rack and wheeling it to her. She takes the handlebars, and that’s when I notice a tiny purple smudge at the corner of her lips.
Without thinking, I reach out, thumbing at the color. Paisley tenses, her bike frame between her thighs, then relaxes.
“Açai,” I explain.
Softly, I rub at the spot past when it has disappeared.
“I think you got it.” Her voice is low.
My thumb makes two more passes. “It’s stubborn. But it’s getting there.” One more swipe and I step back, climbing onto my bike with an uncomfortable tightness in my chest. Being close to Paisley is exquisite torture.
We ride around the island, and Paisley points out landmarks we pass. The boardwalk, where ferries come in. The Conservancy, where scientists work to protect sea turtles and conserve barrier islands. The chapel (a beautiful place, Paisley says, but not where Shane and Sienna are getting married). We take a break beside the golf course lagoon, drinking from the water bottle she brought and trying to spot alligators in the water.
“It’s amazing here, right?” Paisley’s throat moves as she drinks. “It’s a secluded island, but it has everything a person needs.”
“There’s a surreal quality to it,” I confirm, taking the water bottle from her outstretched hand and keeping an eye on the water. We’re twenty feet away, but it’s creepy, especially to this Arizona man. Even after five minutes, when nothing rises to the surface, I’m still vigilant.
Paisley tips her head to the sky, basking in the sun. “No alligators today, Wordsmith. Are you ready for our mission to really begin? By the time we get back, everybody should be there.”
Reaching out, I run a single fingertip up the length of her exposed throat. She flinches, eyes open, but doesn’t move away. “I’ll play my part so well, by the end of this week, even you will think I’m your boyfriend.”
She looks like she wants to say something, but the words aren’t there. Using the tip of her tongue, she licks her lips. “Good. Make sure you’re sending pictures to Cecily. You’re not playing the role of a lifetime for nothing, right?”
She mounts her bike and pedals away at a leisurelypace. Using her reminder, I pull out my phone and take a photo of her back as she wheels away.
