“Yeah.”
I laugh. “That feels a little derivative, don’t you think?”
She giggles without holding back. Not sure if it’s the alcohol, or the same warm comfort I feel deep in my gut after hours of intimate conversation, but I’m loving the ease I’m seeing out of her. “I dunno, it’s a pretty old town. A lot of history there. For all you know, they were named first. And it was pretty charming too. You guys might have some competition on your hands.”
I get back to the pictures on her phone. “You’ve got the synchronous fireflies on here?” I ask her, hovering my thumb over the stunning image on her Pinterest board that looks likeit’s an illustration from a fairy tale, not an actual photograph. Likely taken just miles from where we both are right now, in the heart of the Smoky Mountains.
“Yes!” Her face lights up with more than just the buzz, eyes aglow. “What is it, April now? When do those start?”
“Usually late May or early June,” I tell her. “But you can always come back, right?”
Something I’ve become more and more sure of throughout the night—like there was any question about it until now—is this girl doesn’t stay in one area long enough to grow any moss on that rolling stone of hers.
She tilts her head back and forth, considering. “Maybe. Depends where I go after this, I guess. The whole engine dying thing has kind of changed my travel plans. I’d love to check off Maine and Rhode Island this summer, so I might have to shoot up there next.”
I whip out my phone to look up the ticket system for the synchronous fireflies. “Bad news is the lottery is almost impossible to win.”
“Were you banking on winning the jackpot so you didn’t have to turn to Only Fans if you ever want to retire from painting?”
“First of all, we both know I could make akillingif I chose to go that route and offer up the goods,” I say, head tilted toward her. “But I like to keep viewing rights exclusive. One-night only, one at a time.” The grin that splits my face sends her laughing into the mattress again.
“But I was talking about the lottery to see the synchronous fireflies. It’s super hard to get a parking ticket. Most people try for years before they get it, and some never get the chance to go.”
Her face falls, and I hate myself for doing that to it, so I quickly backtrack.
“But maybe we can both enter it this year and double our chances. You know, if you can make it back here before they’re gone for the season.”
She nods, but it’s not with the same gusto she had before, and I reach out to tuck some of her hair back behind an ear, keep it out of the way of my view of that face. Her perfect little nose, soft cheeks and eyes, with those cheekbones and jawline that give her a fierceness that suits her perfectly.
“Fuck the fireflies,” I tell her seriously. “We’ll find some better shit you can do this year. Maybe there’s a synchronous lobster dance in Maine or something you can catch.”
That giggle that I’m pretty sure only comes out when she’s drunk is back, and I bite down on a smile at being the one to put it there.
Amelia pushes up onto all fours, then rocks back into a sitting position, and her gaze turns heavy as it drags over my features, taking her time getting her fill.
Her sweatshirt is long gone, back to just that little tee with nothing underneath. My eyes aren’t doing so good at following my directions, ’cause they keep roaming down, wandering back to her chest, wondering if her nipples are as excited to see me as I’d be to see them again.
I sit up, mirroring her, and she puffs out a little breath. I’d take a second to be impressed I can sit straight up on this bed and not hit my head on the roof of the van if I wasn’t so preoccupied by that look in her eyes. The molten heat pouring out of them.
“Amelia?” Her name is question enough. She knows what I’m asking.
“Weston.” It’s not a question. It’s what she wants.
“You’re drunk,” I remind her gently.
“So are you,” she bats right back. “But you should know, for the record, I wouldn’t have stopped you earlier. And I wasn’t drunk then.”
“For the record, my offer from before is still on the table. When you’re sober, that is. You wanna see the rest, it’s only fair.”
“But you’re not going to fuck me?” Her voice drips with the tease of her words, and my cock strains against the tight material of my boxer briefs at that word, from those plush lips.
“You got any toys around?” I ask, instead of answering her.
She sucks her lower lip into her mouth and nods, eyes soft on mine.
“Where?”
Amelia rolls off of the bed and lands on the floor with a thunk. She crouches down beneath the bed for a moment and returns, a little mint plastic clamshell in hand. Almost the same hue I’ll be using on the walls of the pizza place when I get to them on the schedule.
