The fact that he’s so loyal only makes him more attractive, and the fact that he didn’t tell me who says a lot about his character.
You don’t tell Lightlys anything you don’t want used against you, and you don’t tell Lightlys who to hurt in the event that they need to use that information against you.
Even when my head is being squeezed like an orange in a juicer—I havegotto get more sleep and less stress in my life—and when whatever that smell is that’s lingering in this underground bunker should be a turnoff even under normal conditions, I find him absolutely charming and irresistible.
And he finds me amusing and flaky and only interested in tossing my panties at him.
Which I didnotdo, for the record.
What I did was much, much worse, and I would very much appreciate it if I could come down with amnesia.
Actually, amnesia would cure nearly everything that’s wrong in my life.
I wonder if I could fake it.
There’s an odd click, then a series of beeps, and then I hear a microwave whir to life. “So we’re still not talking, or is it the vodka?” Dylan asks.
The question reminds me why I’m here.
“Owe me a favor,” I croak.
Ten points to Tavi Lightly for pulling off the babe look while demanding restitution in a freaking bomb shelter before six in the morning.
Or not.
Is it bad that I canhearhim grinning bigger? “So youdoremember last night,” he says.
That sentence should have much, much better connotations. “I don’t drink much.” Not a chance in hell I’ll admit that my problem isn’t the alcohol when the vodka is so much easier to blame.
“You should. You’re funny when you drink. That story about the camel at that garden party in Paris—you hear a lot of things when you’rethe guy on call to resolve plumbing issues that you wouldn’t ever dream would be real things, and I never thought I’d hear something like that.”
I wince.
I forgot I told the camel story.
I always tell the lies when I’m a little buzzed, which is why I so rarely drink anymore. “What’s that smell?”
It’s not the weird bunker funk anymore.
It smells like—
Oh God.
It smells like eggs and cheese and McDonald’s.
“That’s my first breakfast,” Dylan says. “I’d offer you some, but I know how you feel about meat. And eggs. And cheese. And sugar.”
No, he really doesn’t.
My stomach grumbles.
As if I’ll listen to it. I need to skip breakfast to compensate for the calories in those vodka shots last night, and I’m supposed to convince half the townspeople today that they want social media accounts so that they can do on their own what my family is trying to do for them once we leave.
Starting with Dylan, becauseduh.
All he’ll have to do is smile for Instagram in front of the newly repainted gift shop on the square, or smile while he’s holding up a fish he caught in Deer Drop Lake a couple of blocks away, or smile while pointing to theWELCOME TOTICKLEDPINK,HOME TOPINKGOLD,THE MOVIE,AND ITS STAR, ELLADENNINGsign that doesn’t exist anymore but will be replaced soon, and people will flock here to bask in his glory.
Forget the damn old movie that Gigi’s nearly recreated without finding her own soul yet. Forget the half-finished, ivy-covered Ferris wheel that my sister, Phoebe, wants to keep while building a bigger, better Ferris wheel next to it now that she’s fallen in love with a local and is fully on board thelet’s restore Tickled Pink to its former glory andgive them the amusement park that failed when people lost interest in the movietrain.
