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As we eat at the self-proclaimed “best restaurant on South Beach,” our conversation revolves around things that happened to us before we met, and it feels like we’re both cramming for a final exam about the other.
The frantic get-to-know-you continues as we stroll on the nearby boardwalk, and I learn random things about Evan, like the fact that his favorite color is turquoise and his favorite texture is fleece. Whatever he tells me, I find fascinating, no matter how obscure or irrelevant-seeming—and that’s bad. It highlights how deeply in trouble I am. Or more accurately, the trouble my heart is in.
I stop and very demonstratively glance at my tracker to check the time.
My dear Precious, typically at this late hour, I delight in the changes of your majestic brain waves as you move from one stage of beauty sleep to the next. Alas, today I have to resign myself to keeping watch on the scrumptious juices in your stomach and the delectable ones further south.
“It’s getting a bit late to drive back,” I say. Translation: “Let’s get a room so I can have you inside me, now.”
Evan glances at his watch. “I think you’re right.” He gestures at a fancy hotel nearby. “Let’s go see if they have a room.”
Translation: “I’m going to fuck you so hard you’ll have trouble walking for the rest of your stay.”
Clearly on the same wavelength, we jog over to the hotel, then sprint for the elevator once the Shih Tzu-like concierge hands Evan the keys.
Once in the room, we strip and race each other to another giant bed, but then things seem to slow down, and the way Evan takes me is unexpectedly slow and gentle. He stares deeply into my eyes when he enters me, and he interlaces his fingers with mine as we come together in a powerful release.
When it’s all over and Evan wraps himself around me in a tight hug, I finally find the words to describe our sex session.
It was as though he was savoring his last moments with me.
Yeah. That’s how I’m going to interpret it, and not use another two words that I dare not even think.
Love making.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Evan
“I’ve got it!” someone shouts.
I open one eye.
Wearing only a hotel robe, Brooklyn is sitting on the bed cross-legged and pointing very pointedly at the treasure map, her hair disheveled and eyes wild—like those of a very sexy witch.
Of course. The stupid treasure map, I shouldn’t have?—
“It’s the two saints.” Brooklyn stabs at two points on the map, one after the other. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner.”
I open both eyes.
“The four locations didn’t have the clues—they are the clues,” she says excitedly. “Or points on the map.” She grabs a hotel pen and draws two lines on the map. “If you connect St. Petersburg and St. Augustine, the two cities with saints in the name, you get one line. If you also connect the two places that contain the M-girl names Mia and Maria, the intersection between those two lines has to be where the treasure is.”
I sit on the bed and run a hand through my hair. “Nice job. Can I make a phone call, brush my teeth, and maybe eat before we head out?”
Brooklyn pouts like a child, but I head to the bathroom, close the door for privacy, and call Calvin. He picks up right away and sounds amiable to the idea I propose, so I tell him I owe him big and hang up. That done, I brush my teeth.
When I come out, Brooklyn tells me she’s already ordered breakfast, which causes my stomach to rumble gratefully.
During the breakfast and on the drive to our destination, I regret initiating the cursed search for treasure. Without it, we could do something more meaningful with our last full day together—assuming today is that. Then again, said hunt for treasure was what lured Brooklyn into hanging out with me in the first place. I’m not sure she would’ve done so without it.
I’m also not sure if I’m glad we got to spend all this time together. Brooklyn is leaving tomorrow, and the nearer that deadline gets, the heavier my chest grows. Maybe it was also a mistake not putting any labels on our relationship. Labels have warnings—at least on jars with poison—and in this case, the warning should have been: may develop feelings.
Then again, I had that conversation with Calvin, so maybe?—
“Are we there yet?” Brooklyn asks, and I don’t know if she’s kidding, but she sounds just like a kid.
“A few more miles,” I say.
