Too fucking quickly, because Zander can read me better than anyone ever could.
Instead of moving to leave the store like I want him to, he turns me in his arms, moving me forward as he walks us back to where the wall of ears is.
“You want a pair?”
“What? No.”
“Yes, you do. Which one? The sequins? You were touching that one.”
“No, Zander. They’re silly. They’re for kids.”
“I’ve been in this park for barely two minutes and can promise you they are not just for kids.”
“They’re a waste of money.”
“Nothing’s a waste of my money if it makes you happy, Zoe.”
My body goes warm like I just drank a big cup of hot cocoa and it’s pooled in my belly, happy and comfortable.
“I’ll never wear them again,” I say in a whisper. “It’s not practical.”
“We left practical in Jersey, and I don’t plan on letting you pick it back up when we get home. Which one do you want, Zoe?”
I chew on my lip for a moment, trying to ignore how his words impact me.
And what a stark contrast to what my well-meaning mother said years and years ago.
And when I answer, I think a tiny part of me I didn’t realize was torn, heals.
“The mermaid ones,” I say with a smile.
“Whatever you want, pip.”
Later in the day, we’re waiting in line for a ride when Zee’s hands slip around me. He pulls me back against him, our bodies flush, his voice in my ear.
“You happy, Zo?” His voice is low and warm but sends shivers through me all the same.
“What?” I ask, my own voice low.
I’m probably hitting him in the nose with these silly ears, but I don’t dare move.
“Are you happy?”
“I mean, yeah. We’re in Disney. The happiest place on Earth.” His arms tighten, and we take a step together as the line moves forward.
“No, I mean in general, Zoe. Are you happy? Here. With me?”
One hand moves on my hip, hooking into the belt loop, thumb moving to the soft skin above my shorts.
That thumb brushes, sending sparks flying through my veins.
“With you?” I repeat, my voice whisper quiet.
He hears it, though, of course.
I couldn’t tell you how, but the man is so damned in tune with me.
Because this is just what was always supposed to happen.
You and Zee, the little voice in my head tells me.
That thumb keeps stroking, and something about it—the contact, the touch of his hand on my skin—something about it has me answering honestly.
“Yeah, Zander. I’m happy.”
He steps closer despite the line not moving, pushing his body even closer to mine, and without my permission, my body leans back into him.
That thumb dips below the line of my jeans, just barely, but it happens.
“Me too,” he whispers.
“What are you doing, Zee?” I whisper again, my voice shakier, my blood burning.
The man puts a single inch of his skin onto mine, and I need him instantly.
“Driving you crazy,” he says. “Gotta return the favor.”
“Zander—”
“I look at you and want you. In the car, in a bed, in a random alleyway, in the middle of fucking Disney World, I see you and I need your skin on mine.”
My tongue dips out to lick my lips, and we step as one as the line moves forward, that teasing thumb doing a number on my blood pressure and my poor panties.
“I have no idea what you’ve done to me to wrap me so tight, but you’d better never stop,” he whispers, the thumb dipping even lower to graze more sensitive skin.
“Never,” I say without even thinking about the words I’m saying, without remembering this is pretend and complicated and how. right now, we’re in a magical la-la land of romance.
And that thumb presses, my need for him growing.
“Zander, maybe we should—” I start, needing him more than I need to go on this damn ride.
“Next!” the cast member shouts, waving us forward.
Zee’s hand leaves my skin, leaving it cold and lonely before he grabs my hand and tugs me forward.
“Later,” he says with devious thoughts clear in his eyes.
And I never thought I would curse the happiest place on Earth so heavily, but here we are.
It seems this really is just a week of surprises.
THIRTY-FOUR
ALL TOO WELL
-ZOE-
I don’t want to think too hard about why I’m in such a sour mood today.
Yesterday, we spent the entire day wandering around a theme park, riding all of the best rides and eating more junk food than any two people should eat in a 12-hour period before Zander basically had to carry me from the park and back into our hotel room because I was so exhausted.
I passed out without even having him, which, to be honest, is probably part of the reason I’m so grumpy.
But he did wake up again for his midnight question.
This one was asking what color I want the front door of my house to be.
The correct answer, of course, was red.
A red door on a white house with a big wraparound porch.
He smiled, kissed my temple, and told me to go back to sleep.
I actually think there’s a chance I may have dreamed that up.
But then again, I think there’s a chance I’ve imagined this entire trip, to be quite honest.
Still, as we make our slow trek back up to New Jersey, I’m annoyed.
This is also why I’m playing the saddest, angriest of songs on my playlist.
“Fuck Jake Gyllenhaal,” I murmur, looking out the window as the ten-minute version plays and I remember every shitty boyfriend I’ve ever had in glorious, painstaking detail.
It fuels my angry fire.
“What?” Zee says, looking my way with a smile on his lips. I roll my eyes and shake my head.
“I said, fuck Jake Gyllenhaal.” He blinks twice before looking back at the road.
“I’m sorry, what?” There’s laughter in his voice, and I wonder if maybe I was wrong about him being my dream man over all these years because this is a serious subject, and he’s brushing it off.
Even in pretend, I can’t be with a man who doesn’t understand the direness of how terrible Jake Gyllenhaal is.
“Fuck Jake Gyllenhaal. He didn’t even show up at her birthday party.” He keeps staring blankly at me like I’m crazy, alternating between the road and me. “It was her 21st.”
“I’m sorry, are you . . . Are you angry at an actor you’ve never met because a singer you’ve also never met dated him?” I roll my eyes.
“Because he dated Taylor Swift and was a dick to her.”
“Ah, yes. Taylor Swift,” he says in a voice that tells me he finds this topic hilarious instead of serious.
And then he goes down a terrible path.
“But Jake Gyllenhaal is a good actor. Does that mean I can’t enjoy his movies?” I glare at him, aghast.
I was definitely wrong about him being my dream man, I think.
“No, he’s not even a good actor.” Zee guffaws a laugh out loud, and I sigh, fighting a smile and trying to look stoically in the distance and be mad. You know, to channel the “All Too Well” vibes.