“Not unusual to have to dig a second outhouse for a building that old,” I say. “Maybe not common, but also not uncommon. Depends on how well the first was dug.”
“But is it actually a second outhouse? Or is it something else? Can you tell?”
“No idea from here.”
She slaps my ass. “Then get a move on. We might be digging up shit, or we might be digging upshit.”
Our eyes meet in the mirror, and she freezes.
Then turns pink in the cheeks.
Then looks down.
And not at my towel.
No, she’s looking down at her own bare legs under another one of my T-shirts.
“Sorry,” she stutters. “Moment. Mood. Called for—I’m going to go get dressed.”
Fuck it.
Just fuck it.
I straighten, turn, back her against the door, and kiss her.
I kiss the ever-loving shit out of her.
Like I wanted to all night.
All day yesterday.
Every moment since she asked me to be her fake groom.
Possibly every moment since she told me I ruined her life that night that we were playing darts.
Her hands settle on my chest as she opens her mouth for me, and she sighs.
I know that sigh.
It’s a happy,this is so rightsigh.
She said she missed kissing.
I didn’t.
I don’t miss physical activity with people who don’t matter to me.
But I’ll miss kissing her when she’s gone.
When this is over.
If we don’t find the treasure, it doesn’t have to be over.
If we get married for real so that her grandmother and that dickweed can’t question it and I can take advantage of a few more legal protections for her, it doesn’t have to be over.
We can do that.
We can get married for real. I never intended to marry anyone else, and she’s never marrying anyone else either, so why not?
