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Her mint-flavored breath comes out in a rush and suddenly her body is pressed against mine. And fuck, why did I think coming to Belmont Park was a good idea? We could be in my bed right now and I could be inside her instead of trying to fight down my arousal in the middle of a family-friendly theme park.
I know I should pull away. The longer we stand here, the more attention we’re going to draw. The more attention we draw, the higher the chances of me being recognized, and that’s the last thing I want right now. Especially with as skittish as Sage is about anything resembling my status as a local celebrity.
I don’t pull away, though. I can’t. Not now, when she’s pressed so sweetly—so hotly—against me.
Not now, when she’s holding me so tightly.
And definitely not now when it feels like she’s opening herself to me—opening herself up to me—for the very first time.
So I stay where I am at the edge of the park, kissing her. Holding her. Letting her hold me for long seconds that turn into one minute, then two.
Eventually someone walks by and whistles, and that’s what breaks the spell. Sage pulls back, cheeks flushed, lips swollen and eyes just a little glazed. It’s that more than anything else that has my arousal leaping into my throat. Those fucking eyes of hers are going to be the death of me.
I’m about to suggest we head back to the car—back to my house—when Sage grins and starts tugging me toward the nearest concession stand. “If you expect me to get on any of these rides with you, you’d better be prepared to ply me with cotton candy.”
“Cotton candy?” I ask, eyebrows raised. It’s the last thing I expected my practical, down-to-earth Sage to ask for.
“Cotton candy,” she repeats. “It’s my favorite.”
“All right, then. Cotton candy it is.” I reach for my wallet. “Which flavor do you like?”
She shoots me a disdainful look. “All the flavors. Obviously.”
“Obviously,” I repeat, more than a little bemused…and intrigued. Every day I find out something new about Sage, and everything I learn just makes me want to know more. About what she likes, about what she wants, about who she is. With most women, I don’t care about more than the surface details, but with Sage? I want nothing more than to learn every single thing there is to know about her.
When we get to the front of the line, I order her all five flavors of cotton candy the booth has to offer—pink vanilla, blue raspberry, piña colada, bubble gum and lemon lime.
Just the idea of lemon-lime cotton candy has me shuddering a little—who knew I was a purist—but Sage happily devours it while we wait in line to buy the wristbands that will give us unlimited access to all the attractions.
There’s a part of me that thought she was messing with me when she asked for all the cotton candy—this is the woman who eats homemade granola and berries for breakfast every morning and who considers a piece of chocolate cake a major splurge. But as I watch her make her way through four cotton candy packages in under ten minutes, it’s hard to think she’s anything but serious.
She saves the traditional pink-vanilla cotton candy for last, and as we wait in line for the Giant Dipper Roller Coaster, she offers me a bite.
“Seriously?” I ask. “You just went through four rolls of cotton candy on your own and now you want to give me a bite.”
“I saw how you turned your nose up at the lemon-lime flavor. You’re a cotton candy snob.” She starts to pull the cotton candy back toward her, but I grab hold of her wrist long enough to pull a chunk off the white paper tube.
“I’m a purist, not a snob.”
She sniffs. “Yeah, that’s what they all say.” Still, she offers me more.
We finish the last of the stuff as we get to the front of the line. As we climb into the first car of the roller coaster, Sage looks nervous for the first time.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, as I check to make sure the bar is tight against her lap.
“Nothing.” But she’s not looking me in the eye.
“Don’t you like roller coasters?” I demand, holding a hand up to attract the attendant’s attention. We’re locked in and if I need to get her out of here I’m going to need his help.
Sage slaps my hand down. “I’m fine.”
“Really?” She’s pale and a little shaky. “Because you don’t look fine.”
“It’s a sugar rush. All that cotton candy just hit me.”
I might be tempted to believe her—God knows, if I ate that much sugar in one sitting I’d barely be bouncing off the freaking walls—but there’s something in her eyes that tells me she’s lying to me.
I think about backing off—she obviously doesn’t want to talk about whatever it is—but I’m sick of backing off. Sick of her refusing to tell me what she’s thinking, especially when it’s about something as stupid as this damn roller coaster.
