“I like it. You and me, fifty years from now. Just like this.”
He watches me for a handful of silent seconds. His eyes are in shadow, so I can’t see his expression.
“We should take a photo,” I say, standing and extending my hand. “This is the good light.”
George puts his palm in mine, but instead of letting me help him up, he tugs me down.
“Hey.” I elbow him, wiggling to escape his grip. He tickles the sensitive spot under my ribs, and I cackle. He knows I’m ticklish.
From behind me, he says “Stop fussing, Frankie” against my ear, and a shudder rolls through my body. George must feel it because he freezes. I shut my eyes, not sure what to do or say. But before I figure it out, he pulls me against his chest, tucking me into his body between his legs.
“Take the picture,” he says, banding his arms around my waist.
I nod, because I don’t trust myself to sound like anything but the way I feel. I fiddle with my phone and paste a smile on my face as I raise it. In the screen, I watch George set his chin on my shoulder. His dark curls are pressed against my blond hair.
We look like a couple.
The last two days, we’ve almost felt like a couple.
These are dangerous thoughts. I push them aside and stare at the little green dot above the screen, avoiding looking at the two of us.
“The wind is picking up. Are you getting cold?” George asks when I’m done, his arms still circling me. “You have goose bumps.”
“Oh.” I peer down at the bumps on my arms. I doubt it’s the breeze that caused them. “A little bit.”
George rubs his hands up and down my shoulders a few times, then pulls me even more closely against his chest, wreathing his arms around me. It’s like having a George-shaped beach towel wrapped around my body.
“This okay?”
I’m unable to do anything but nod.
Tell me what you want, sweetheart.
I look back at the sunset, a deep crimson surrounded by burned gold, like a slice of blood orange. After a moment, George begins to hum. But I barely hear him over the screaming of my heart.
Chapter Twenty-seven
George closes his book when I walk down the stairs for dinner. His gaze flicks up to me, moves away, then zooms right back. I pause.
“It’s not bad, is it?”
I smooth my palms over my stomach, checking the dress once more. It’s a deep plummy red that plays up the violet in my eyes—the ruched fabric skims my curves to where it falls below my knees. It has a bit of stretch, so it’s easy to move in, even though it looks delicate, with its thin straps and low neckline. I’ve put on a pair of black slingbacks.
I bought the dress on sale to wear the first time I was invited to dinner with Nate’s colleagues, hoping to trick them into thinking I was sophisticated beyond my years. A little sexy. Maybe even a bit mysterious. Despite what Nate said, I knew his friends would be skeptical of me. Of us. I have no idea whether the dress made any difference, but it did have an effect on me.
George blinks.
“You look…” Slowly, he gets to his feet.
I roll my eyes and continue down the stairs. “Just say I look nice.”
He combs his fingers through his hair. “Jesus.”
I honestly can’t tell what he thinks. He’s looking out the window. “Was that a goodJesus?”
His eyes swing to mine. “Did you look in the mirror?”
“No, I put my makeup on in the dark.” I used some of the stuff Aurora got for the wedding. I had to video-call her so she could talk me through applying the eyeshadow and liner, but I’m pleased with how it turned out. A touch of gold on my eyes. A lip stain a shade darker than my natural color.
