“I don’t know what you’ve heard,” he says with a little wink, “but I believe crispy food equals joy.”
He carries our plastic baskets lined with paper, already soaking up grease from the massive pile of fries and huge pieces of battered fish. It smells like heaven. I bring our two frozen lemonades, and we find a picnic table on the back deck. It’s chilly; the fog has rolled in. But Mama’s has Mexican-style woven blankets and overhead gas heaters at each table.
“Oh my god,” I say around a huge mouthful of fried fish.
“I know, right?” Owen says, popping more fries into his mouth than will politely fit, and I love it.
Conversation flows like we’ve done this a hundred times. Owen tells me about growing up in small-town Ohio—about snow days and basement bands. I fill him in on the least glamorous details of RootDown’s latest launch. Buthe listens like I’m recounting a moon landing, nodding at all the right places, eyes lit with interest.
We trade jokes between bites, and at some point, I swipe a fry from his basket despite having more than enough of my own. He slides the whole thing my way, barely pausing the story of how he and Eli met and how he basically lied his way into a job as his agent when they were both twenty-two.
He’s a natural storyteller, but what gets me is how tuned in he is. He asks real questions—the kind that make me feel seen, not scanned. I tell him about the time Spenser tried to teach me to surf at Ocean Beach when I was fifteen, how we bailed after one wave, got donuts, and skipped school. He forged our dad’s signature so I wouldn’t get caught. We never told anyone.
Owen laughs—not just at the story, but like he remembers it too, like he’s been here all along.
“Ready for stop two?” Owen asks, tossing our dinner remnants in the trash and stacking the baskets on top. I nod, slurping the last sip of my lemonade.
We walk a few blocks until Owen stops in front of what appears to be an abandoned storefront, the windows blacked out. Above the door is a small hand-lettered sign that reads, “The Library.” But something about the glint in Owen’s eyes makes me think we won’t find books inside. He holds the door open for me, and I can’t believe what I see—or hear—when we walk in.
Every possible vintage arcade game flashes its neon lights and chimes its musical tunes.Donkey Kong,Ms. Pac-Man, andMortal Kombat—all the games I had to sneak over to the neighbor’s to play as a kid.
“What is this place?” I say in awe.
Owen holds out his fist and drops a handful of coins into my palm. “Let’s see what you got, Arden.”
I beat him ateverything:Pole Position,Street Fighter, and evenWhack-a-Mole. I can tell by the concentration in hisbrows and the curse words he lets slip that he’s not letting me win. He feigns sulking, claiming the games are rigged and demanding a rematch. We play another round, and he finally beats my score—once—atPac-Man.He dances around the arcade, pumping his fists in the air. He uses his meager ticket winnings to buy me a tiny Princess Peach statue when I explain she was the actual hero of the Mario Brothers game.
“Everyone thinks she’s just sitting there waiting to be rescued,” I tell him, eyeing my new three-inch-tall best friend. “But she’s surviving, keeping the kingdom together, and when she gets the chance, she saves the day herself. That’s the real hero to me.”
My heart swells at the thoughtfulness of this entire date; he’s known me for less than forty-eight hours, and he’s more tuned into me than anyone in my family has ever been. I have a few coins left in my pocket, so I tug him into the photo booth. He pulls me onto his lap as I feed the coins into the slot, wrapping his hands around my waist. We take a normal photo, then silently agree to make silly faces for the next two. Before the last flash goes off, I turn to look at him. His smile is so disarming that I forget to breathe for a moment, then I grab his face and kiss him just as the last flash goes off. He kisses me back, but it’s slow and unhurried, his hand trailing feather-light across the bare skin at my waist where my sweater has hitched. He tastes like salt and the Junior Mints we shared from the vending machine.
He gently pulls away, and I try to lean in, but he tips his chin down to the two pairs of shoes waiting outside the photo booth curtain. “On to stop three?” he asks, his voice soft.
We stop at the Mustang, and Owen first hands me an oversized hoodie from the backseat before popping the trunk to reveal a blanket, a small bundle of firewood, and a bag of marshmallows. He takes our supplies out and squints up at the darkening horizon.
“I think my competitive streak might have made us miss the sunset.”
“That’s okay,” I say, taking the blanket from him. “This part’s my favorite—when everything gets quiet and golden.”
Twenty minutes later, he has a small but mighty fire going, and we are skewering fat marshmallows, sitting close together on the blanket against the chilly night. My first one immediately catches fire and plops into the coals. Owen chuckles and skewers a new one for me. I stick it back in the fire, concentrating on rotating it to keep it from burning again.
“I can admit you totally schooled me at the arcade,” Owen says, blowing on his perfectly roasted marshmallow. “But you’re about to burn your second one, so let me help.” He slides the gooey blob off his stick and holds it out. I part my lips, letting him feed it to me, and I swear I hear his breath catch. He’s about to pull his hand away when I grab his wrist.
“I missed some,” I say, pulling his finger back to my mouth to suck the sticky sugar off.
“Liv…” His hand snakes around the nape of my neck, and he pulls me close. He presses a kiss to my mouth, and his lips are soft, yet the kiss is demanding. And I don’t mind. “I want my own taste,” he says, licking into my mouth. “So sweet.” He kisses me again before moving down my jaw and sucking the skin at the juncture of my neck. “And here, tastes so good.”
I want to be closer, so I clamber over and straddle his lap. He continues to kiss every piece of exposed skin he can find.
“So I guess we’ve kind of done this backwards, huh?” I breathe out, tipping my head back when he drags his teeth across my throat.
“First, you were my husband, then we got engaged, then you met my mother—sorry about that, by the way—then we slept together…and now we’re on our first date?”
“Making out like teenagers on the beach,” he laughs, lowering me back onto the blanket. “So, what comes next?”
“Maybe you’ll be the one to hit on me in a bar,” I say, my voice a little lower.
“Maybe I already did,” he says into my mouth, before moving his kisses down the column of my throat to the ridge of my clavicle. “I was drawn to you. I saw you across the bar before that asshole even came over.” His hands are now exploring under my shirt, squeezing my breasts. He pushes the fabric of my bra aside to find my nipples already peaked with arousal.
