Michelle’s fingers lingered on my shoulders, her nails lightly pressing into my shirt. I looked into her eyes. They were equal parts heat and longing, and for a second the entire line around us disappeared. It was just her, perched in front of me, daring me to close the gap.
The distraction worked a little too well—next thing I knew,we were in the loading bay. Michelle froze the second her toes touched the yellow line.
“Look, if you’re too scared to go on a big girl ride, then we can bail. I’ll take you to the carousel, we’ll eat cotton candy, get a stuffed bunny…”
“No.” She squared her shoulders, her eyes blazing with something stubborn and scared and completely irresistible. She even checked her pulse to confirm she hadn’t flatlined. “I’m doing it… so shut up.”
“Fine,” I said, raising my hands. “I’ll alert the paramedics.”
We climbed into the unstable car, and the lap bar slammed down over our thighs.
I leaned in, lowering my voice. “You don’t have back issues, do you?”
“No, why?” Michelle asked, squeezing tighter, her breath coming fast.
“No reason.”
As if on cue, the coaster lurched forward, snapping our bodies back against the seats. We were hauled up the first impossibly tall hill as the whole structure creaked and groaned around us. The chain dragged us higher and higher.
And then, with a gut-dropping lurch, the world tilted, and we plunged.
She didn’t scream when we dropped. At least, not at first. But by the second dive, she’d found her voice and unleashed it at a pitch that set off every dog in the county. I spent the ride laughing my ass off and yelling encouragement she definitely didn’t hear.
When the cars screeched back into the station and jolted to a stop, she didn’t move. Her hair had been blown into a bird’s nest of tangles, her mascara was smudged, and her cheeks were a sickly shade of pale. She looked like she’d just staggered out of battle.
I braced myself for the meltdown. For the “never again” speech. For the inevitable reminder that normal people’s ideas of fun were apparently medieval torture to her.
But then she turned those wild eyes on me, breathless and wrecked, and whispered, “Again.”
Michelle Carver was my dream girl.
Usually around the two-week mark,girls started to bore me. But not Michelle. She had my full attention. Maybe it was the time limit that had been placed on us that made every moment with her feel urgent. Six weeks to blow her mind; that’s all I’d been given, and I was doing my best to give her experiences she’d never get back home. Strolling the mall. Cruising the main drag. Roller rinks. Bonfires on the beach.
With every date, the pull between us grew stronger. I kept my focus locked on Michelle. My hand would slide up her side, gripping her like she was already mine. Michelle was no better. She had a habit of grabbing my jaw, tilting my face toward hers, and kissing me with a smoldering intensity. That alone was enough to get a rise out of me.
We never crossed the line, but it was a constant dance along the edge. I had a feeling it wasn’t her protecting her innocence so much as protecting herself from whatever would happen when our six weeks were up.
But I couldn’t worry about that now. Not when we still had time to spend. And today, Michelle wanted to slow it down. No thrill rides. No underwater CPR. Sundays were fun days… with MGM, and we spent them at a kids’ park in the heart of the Venice Beach Boardwalk. It was a place my own mother had taken me nearly every day of my young life. She’d be off roller skating in a bikini, blowing bubbles into the wind, while I navigated the play structure solo with the mentality of a mob boss. I smiled at the memory of her naïve negligence.
Sitting back on a park bench, I watched the interaction between Michelle and MGM. It was the first time I could actually picture her in my life. It looked so real, so possible, that my chest ached with the memory of everything I’d already lost. I knew better than to want more, but I couldn’t help it. Hope was a habit I hadn’t managed to break.
MGM was strapped into a baby swing. Michelle grabbed his little legs on the forward motion and they both dissolved into giggles. There was genuine affection there, and it was easy to see their growing connection. But Michelle had never navigated bedtime with a tired toddler or changed a blowout diaper. Or dealt with a temperamental April. These small snippets with him weren’t enough to show her the real life she’d step into if she chose me. Not that I believed she would. Playing house for a summer was one thing; settling into my low-impact life was another.
After the park, we wandered the boardwalk, hands linked with a wobbly toddler between us, dodging bikes, skaters, and the occasional unsteady junkie.
“Scott?”
April’s voice cut through the crowd. She was heading our way with a cluster of friends, eyes sweeping the scene—me, MGM, and Michelle holding her son’s hand. Her expression shifted instantly.
“Who are you?” she asked, locking on Michelle.
I jumped in. “April, this is Michelle.”
MGM broke free and toddled to his mom. April scooped him up, never breaking eye contact. “Again. Who are you?”
“My girlfriend,” I said, and Michelle’s quick smile rewarded me.
April’s brows lifted. “I didn’t know you were seeing anyone. You’re not from around here.”
