I resist the urge to back down in the face of his scorn. People like him use shame as a weapon and I refuse to let Captain Buttercup land a blow.
“Ridiculous. I agree. But that’s what you were doing,” I say, mincing no words. “And you were messing with my boyfriend. You were trying to knock him out of the running.”
His brow pinches. “Your boyfriend? How interesting. How very interesting,” he murmurs. “Well, I hope you two enjoy exchanging kisses over paranoid conspiracy theories. Perhaps name your next ice cream flavor…subterfuge.”
“Perhaps I will.” I lean closer and whisper sweetly, “Also, you’re kind of a twat. And by ‘kind of,’ I mean you are definitely a twat.”
I spin on my heel and walk away.
I’m not a hater. But man, it felt incredibly good to tell off that frozen-food, easter-egg-impersonating prick.
I meet West at his station as he’s gathering the last of his things. He arches a brow at me before glancing over my shoulder at Hawley. “I trust whatever that was went well?”
“Yep. Tell you all about it on our date,” I say with a grin. “I assume we’re going on a date?”
“Hell, yes, we are. Right this very second.”
The stars don’t twinkle at night in New York City, but I swear I can feel them sparkling overhead in the inky velvet sky. It’s that kind of night—a night for starlight and kisses, for holding hands and whispering sweet everythings.
West drapes an arm around me as we wander through the crowds at the Luna Park amusement park by the beach. “Tell me one more time,” he says, his delight clear in his voice. “What did he do when you called him a twat?”
“He did this.” I pull a crinkly, slack-jawed face as we make our way to the Ferris wheel.
He laughs. “Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. I might need you to tell me that story again before bed.”
I rest my head against his shoulder briefly. “And I’ll happily do it.”
Ah, bed. We’ll be heading there soon. Together.
Happy sigh.
We reach the Ferris wheel and stand in line. As we wait, we are that couple. The one everyone wants to be. Holding hands, touching hair, laughing. As we amble closer, we talk about our favorite bands and singers.
I learn he loves Radiohead and Rush, two bands I can’t stand, though their music is slightly less disgusting than beets and turnips, an opinion I share with West that makes him laugh again, since it turns out he detests those veggies too. I tell him that I adore Broadway musicals and the swooniest of male singers like Matt Nathanson and Harry Connick Jr. “I also love Sam Smith,” I confess.
“Then I’ll play a Sam Smith tune the next time I seduce you,” he whispers as we walk up the ramp, closer to the entrance of the ride.
I tip my face closer to his. “I’m gonna let you in on a little secret. You’ve already seduced me. Big time.”
“Very good to hear, but seducing isn’t something you check off a list and consider it done, Gigi. It’s a calling of the highest, most noble order to keep seducing your beautiful, sexy woman day after day.”
Swoon.
He’s doing it.
He is absolutely doing it—seducing me over and over.
The young, tattooed ride attendant clears his throat. “Step right up. No rocking. No troublemaking. And please don’t spit.”
I wrinkle my nose.
As we head to the cage, I shoot West a curious look. “Was that really necessary? Do people do that? Spit at the top of Ferris wheels?”
“Seems they do. If you’re interested, I’m up for breaking the rules. But fair warning, I’m an excellent spitter. Two older brothers and all.”
“Gross,” I say pleasantly as I run my hand along his arm then squeeze his bicep. “I had no idea this icky, boyish side of you existed. But I kind of like it.”
“Brilliant. But let’s hold off on the belching contest. I need a pint or two to really perform in that arena.”
“If you insist.” I laugh.
“I do insist. From the bottom of my big bossy heart.”
I tap his sternum, then run my hand over his chest. “It is very big and very bossy.”
“Just the way you like it.”
“Guilty,” I say as we settle into the seat, rocking back and forth as the Ferris wheel starts to climb.
He clasps my hand, brings my palm to his lips, kisses me. “Tell me something I don’t know about you. Have you ever been to Europe?”
I sigh. “I haven’t. It’s a travesty, but I’ve always been too busy with work. But I would love to see Big Ben and the Eiffel Tower, and I definitely want to go all the way to the top, and I don’t care if that’s cheesy.” I cut a glance his way. “I bet you hate the Eiffel Tower.”
He smiles and confirms, “It’s my least favorite part of Paris. But I’ll happily take you to the top and stay there as long as you like.”