Page 4 of Flint

“Yeah, but what if something is guiding you to those choices?”

“I think fate is a cop out for weak individuals that don't want to take responsibility for their choices,” I argue. I have no patience for people that don’t take ownership over everything in their lives. If you don’t take ownership, you can’t fix the bad things that happen.

The grin he gives me is dazzling. “I think fate has been leading me every step of the way right here to this moment with you.”

I finish the last of my root beer float. “Assuming that’s true, then where is fate leading you next?”

“On a grand new adventure,” he answers and drains the rest of his root beer too. I watch his throat work. His beard looks so thick and plush. He sets his empty mug down. “Do you want to get out of here?”

My heart rate speeds up even more. My panties have been damp since the moment I saw him by the pool. “I'd love that.”

He stands and holds out a hand. I put my hand in his, tingles running down my spine. He tugs me gently from my stool, careful to make sure I’m steady on my feet.

In the darkened parking lot where only half of the lights have blinked on, I survey the collection of cars. The bar is just down the street from the motel, and I chose to walk because it was such a nice evening out. “Which one is yours?”

He puts a hand on my lower back, steering me toward a pickup truck underneath a working light. He pats the hood affectionately. “It’s not much, but it’s Ole Reliable.”

He opens the door and helps me into the vehicle. His hands linger for a just a moment longer than necessary on my hips. He squeezes my flesh through my dress and lets out a soft groan before he releases me.

When he gets in, a sports radio program starts playing, but he turns it off. He adjusts the air vents so they’re blowing toward me then reaches for the stick shift. My heart skips a beat. There’s something about seeing a man drive a stick so effortlessly that does it for me.

After he pulls out of the parking lot, I expect him to turn the truck toward the motel. Instead, he turns in the opposite direction.

“Where are we going?” I ask. If it were anybody else, I might be a little bit worried because this man is still a stranger that I just met an hour ago. But Mira knows who he is, and she'd never set me up with anybody that she didn't believe was trustworthy.

“Thought we’d go somewhere fun,” he answers and pulls into a stop in a grassy field. On the opposite side are bright lights, the sounds of merriment, and a Ferris wheel. “It’s a pop-up event, one that’s only here for two days.”

I can’t help grinning. “Prepare to get your ass kicked at Skee-Ball.”

He grins too. “I’m not taking it easy on you just because you’re hot.”

Outside of the truck, he takes my hand, and we walk to the ticket booth. He buys far too many and doesn’t let me pay for any of them.

True to my word, I kick his ass in Skee-Ball. The final total is six to three, and we only stop playing because there’s a line forming behind us. After that, we go for balloon darts which is clearly his game. We grab cotton candy and eat it slowly as we walk down the aisles, chatting about nothing at all. The entire time he holds my hand, like he doesn’t ever want to let me go.

When we pass the Ferris wheel, he pauses. “Do you want to go up?”

My stomach swoops as I imagine being at the highest point. “Speed is my thing. Heights make me nervous.”

He gives my hand a gentle squeeze. “I’ll be right beside you the whole time.”

I watch the passengers disembarking, listening to the excited murmurs and watching a pair of teenagers who are so clearly trying to pretend they aren’t in love with each other. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to try. “Promise?”

“A cowboy never breaks his word,” he says solemnly.

I take a deep breath and nod before I can talk myself out of it. This is my birthday weekend, and I did tell myself that I was going to try new things and get out of my comfort zone.

He pays for our tickets and helps me onto the bench. He checks my seat belt, tugging on it until he’s satisfied that I’m buckled in. He lets his fingers ghost along my hips again. I love the way he can’t seem to stop touching me.

The ride starts, and I make a small noise of surprise.

He slides an arm around my shoulders, plastering us even closer together. “I’ve got you.”

It's the gentle reassurance that has tears unexpectedly pricking at my eyes.

“I used to be fearless,” I whisper, surprised to find the wave of grief when I think about the woman I used to be. She was fearless because she didn’t understand that the pretty future she was building in her head could change with one glance at her husband’s browser history.

“You still are fearless,” he says.