Page 31 of Left of Forever

Day 6: Hike? I’m fine just relaxing and enjoying the campground scenery.

Day 7: Drive home to Spunes.

Activities to ensure unromance: First, all the drive time. I know you do your best contemplating in a car, so we won’t need to be chatty. You can ride down with Sam if you think that’d be best. Otherwise, I’m looking forward to your unromantic playlists. Do you still listen to theNew Moonsoundtrack once a week??

I also know you don’t like hotels because you don’t think it’s natural to sleep anywhere without a kitchen close by. Unfortunately, our son had to go and be great and got himself into college and now that we have to foot that bill, renting villas throughout our stay is out of budget. Fortunately,everywhere we stay is lacking a kitchen, so I’ve already put us in a good romance deficit as far as that’s concerned.

And, the most unromantic thing of all: Camping.*With separate tents. Ending the trip with camping seems pretty unromantic! (Emphasis on the no kitchens!)

*Disclaimer: The place in McArthur was recommended by Fisher, so I actually can’t adequately speak to the romance of it.

The very first thing I do is smile like an idiot into the glowing light of my phone. This playful side of Ellis is rare and special, and I feel a dizzying thrill over him taking charge of a plan like this. Imissedthis. The seamless way he could manage something while giving me just as much control.

I have got to stop and get a grip. It’s the champagne making my stomach flutter…

The second thing I do is click on all the links at the bottom of the email. The Santa Cruz hotel is quirky, elegant, and midcentury modern. It’s also right on the beach.Dammit, Ellis.

The second takes me to the ranch’s website, where I see that the termcottagehas been applied generously. They are more like sheds that have been renovated, with tiny covered porches and corrugated tin roofs. They sit lined up in tidy rows across from swooping hills of grapevines. The rooms themselves are pretty simple, but the grounds are gorgeous. Gardens and terraces and even a quaint pond. The main manor is a giant white stucco façade that looks like it was plucked straight from the Mediterranean countryside. Terra-cotta tiles on the roof, all of it tucked lovingly around a courtyard decorated with string lights.

I’m dubious about the unromance of it all, but I guess ending the trip on camping should keep things grounded…

The final camping destination is even worse somehow. It’sglampingin every sense of the word. The white canvas tents have wood-burning stoves and puffy cloud beds. There’s a trail that runs through the forest up to the camp store and the cliffside restaurant, which are—yep—both fancy as hell.

I’m stabbing the Call button on his name before I give myself time to lose steam.

“Hello?” comes his sleepy, grit-filled greeting. At the sound of that gruff, hushed tone, a riptide of memory yanks me under. Underhim, in that very bed he’s lying in right now, my hands holding on to the spindles of our old brass frame above me. Him on his knees between my legs, the deep drag and thrust of him inside me and the feel of his grip on my hips.

“You can be loud, baby, it’s just you and me.”

I hang up the phone. I am never touching champagne again.

He calls me back.

“Hello?” I choke out.

“Uh, yeah? Did you call me?”

I consider lying. Fuck it. “Every single one of these places is romantic as hell, Ellis.”

His sigh makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up, like static electricity through the phone. “I can make anywhere feel as unromantic as you want, Wren. I’m not taking you on a helicopter ride through a waterfall or some shit.” He laughs softly. “Might see if you wanna hike to one.” My growl makes him laugh harder. “It’s your birthday. I’m not going to spend it in a pop-up Coleman down on Founder’s Point.”

My heart lurches. “Ilikedthat birthday,” I say weakly. I liked that he’d planned it.

He’s quiet for a moment too long. “Yeah, well, we couldn’t afford anything else back then, I guess. But I meant it when I said I’d cover it now.”

“It’s not that. It’s…” God,whatis it? He’s planned something. He’s put in an effort. What am I afraid of? How badly I want it to work? “I’m just trying to stay as clearheaded as possible about this.” I recognize the irony of making this statement through the buzz still sparkling in my brain.

He’s quiet again for a beat. “I know. I want that, too, but… I really don’t think the background is going to affect the rest of the picture. It’s you and me, and we’ll make the rules as we go along. I promise not to back down from going through the hard shit.”

After a protracted pause filled with nothing but soft breathing, I say, “Okay.”

When we get off the phone, I email him back.

Yes, I do. “Rosyln” is the song of my generation.

CHAPTER 15

WREN