“What?”
“The website to win. I’ll fill it out with my email.”
“Really?” I ask, my face splitting with a grin.
“Yeah. What would it hurt?” he asks with a lift of his shoulder, his phone at the ready for the website.
“It’s for two tickets. You have to take me if you win,” I say, a wide grin on my lips. He shakes his head and rolls his eyes.
“If I win, you can have both of them,” he states as if that’s obvious, but I gasp and shake my head.
“No way! If you win, you get the tickets. Fair is fair. You just have to take me with you.” I narrow my eyes at him.
“Fine,” he grumbles after a moment.
“And when I win, I’ll take you.”
“You really don’t have to?—”
“That might just be how the luck works. I’m not going to tempt fate, Graham.” Before he can continue his argument, I spot something on his cheek. “Stay still,” I say, voice low as if I have to be quiet or it will vanish.
“What?”
“Stay still, my god, do you ever do as you’re told?” I murmur.
“Ironic, coming from you,” he grumbles, but does as I ask all the same.
I can’t help but smile to myself as I gently brush the eyelash from his cheek. This back-and-forth banter happens more often now. I take it as a sign he’s growing more comfortable and friendly with me.
Though the spark that moves through me as I brush my pointer finger across his cheek, my body just inches from his, is the furthest thing from friendly I could fathom.
“Make a wish,” I whisper as I lift my finger, an eyelash on the very tip.
“A wish?”
I smile, looking from him to my finger and back before explaining.
“It’s what you do if there’s an eyelash on your face. Blow it and make a wish,” I say. He looks at me, and I expect him to brush me off, but instead, his lips purse gently, the image also going straight to my belly in a way it probably shouldn’t, before a gentle breath coasts along my finger and my cheek, sending a shiver through me.
Oh, I am so screwed.
I kind of hope we don’t win those tickets, because how on earth would I act normally for hours on end with Graham outside of work?
“I wished you would get those tickets,” he says after a moment, his voice hoarse.
“God, Graham, you’re so bad at this,” I say with a forced laugh, stepping away and shaking my head, needing to put space between us. I reach for my lunch, then my phone, so we can eat outside together. “You’re not supposed to share your wish.”
“Oh, yeah, I forgot,” he says with a laugh, following me out, but the ghost of his breath on my skin lingers for the rest of the day.
TWENTY-ONE
When I arrive at my hotel, I toss my things on the couch and head straight to my laptop. Then, I do what I’ve done every day since June Taylor first walked into Daytrip.
Whatever I can to make her every whim come true.
I spend hours finding every contest for tickets to the festival she mentioned, inputting her information for each entry, then mine just in case, and then for each of the fifteen burner accounts I’ve created on the Daydream server, which I’ve redirected to her email.
Is it ethical?
