Page 35 of On The Edge

“I need to stretch my legs,” he says, pulling over beside a field of dahlias. They blanket the field to the right of us in every imaginable color.

“Really?” I ask.

“Don’t sound so excited.” He laughs.

“No. I am. Very.” I jump out of the car and run down a narrow path in the field of flowers. I hold my hands out and spin. “Dahlias are my absolute favorite!”

The sun feels good on my face and for the first time since we started this . . . adventure, if you will, I feel a little bit more like me. Simple. Unapologetic. Happy.

I keep my arms up with my spin on slow until I stop and stumble a bit. When my world stops spinning and Cruz comes into view, he’s standing about ten feet away from me with an odd look on his face. Part amusement. Part . . . what I swear might be jealousy?

That emotion seems strange and out of place, but it’s gone as soon as I see it. It’s replaced with a warm smile as he walks toward me, plucks a bright pink dahlia, and tucks it behind my ear.

“There. It fits you,” he murmurs, his fingers lingering on the strand of hair that fell out from behind my ear when he put the stem there.

“It fits me?”

“Mm-hmm. Carefree.”

Carefree? That’s not a word I think anyone has ever used to describe me. But before I can question it or him, he holds out his phone and takes several selfies of us—all of which I, no doubt, will hate.

“We need a nickname,” he states.

“A what?” I ask as I take in and try to memorize every inch of landscape around us. The flowers. The blue sky. The fluffy white clouds. The silhouette of a large windmill off in the distance.

“A nickname. You know, like all power couples have.”

How is it that Cruz continues to surprise me? Like, what man thinks of something like that?

And how freaking hilarious that he does?

“Excuse me a second.” I hold my finger up and grin at him. “It was only days ago that I thought you were going to flip a table over Kevin’s ultimatum. And now you’re asking for us to have a nickname. What exactly changed?”

“Cruddix? Nah.” He chuckles. “That’s not going to work. The Dix only works on a girl’s name. What about . . . Madcruz?” He makes a ridiculous face. “Even worse.”

“You’re not answering my question.”

“And you’re not naming us.”

“My question first. Then . . . I’ll help.”

He sighs and looks at me. For a brief second, I think he’s going to ignore my request but then he says, “I figure the more we embrace this, the sooner I can ink the deal. Then the quicker we can both get back to our own lives . . . and our own sex lives.”

Should’ve guessed this had something to do with sex. He’s a guy, right? “Wow. Okay. It must be a rough, lonely life if not having sex for a few days is this much of an incentive for you.” Sarcasm drips from my tone.

“It’s a rough job, but somebody has to do it.” He huffs on his knuckles and shines them on his chest. It earns him the death glare from me. “Relax. The media makes me out to be way worse than I am. Besides, just because I’m out partying doesn’t mean I fuck every girl I meet. I do have standards,” he teases.

“Classy.”

“You asked.” A smile toys at the corners of his mouth.

“I did not.”

“You did without asking in that way that women do. And for the record, I have a clean bill of health.”

“The fact that you even have to utter that proves my point.” What is this conversation?

“I don’t have to utter shit, Hart. But from what I’ve gathered so far, you’re a girl who likes her t’s crossed and i’s dotted and everything to be in its proper place. No doubt you were wondering since we’re sharing a bed together. Now, you don’t have to.”