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“Don’t we have to get in line?” she stutters, pointing behind her.
“No,” I say.
“Okay,” she says. “Why not? All these people were here first.”
“Because I can,” I tell her as we get to the front.
“What, do you own the wheel?” she says laughing with absurdity.
Salty little thing. My lips quirk in amusement. It’s nice to see some reactivity under her seemingly insecure demeanor.
“No, but I could if I wanted to,” I say. Then I whisper a few words to the operator, and he nods, holding back the entire line and letting us through.
“What was that about?” she asks, looking back. But I just hold fast to her hand and guide her into the VIP gondola.
“We’re riding alone,” I tell her as we take a seat.
“Alone? Like alone in this gondola?”
“No. Alone as in no one else on the ride,” I tell her, and her jaw drops. We start to move and even though it’s not a hard jolt like on a thrill ride, she jerks a little and leans into me, her hand falling on my thigh.
It’s quiet as we slowly ascend. I sit still, my eyes focused on the lights below us and the ocean sprawling out before us. Something in my stomach turns a little, a sharpness that I will away. I had a feeling being on the Ferris wheel might conjure up some sort of reaction from me. Not because I am afraid of heights or the motion makes me ill, but because it’s been a long time since I’ve been on this Ferris wheel. A very, very long time.
The girl next to me is fidgeting, and I can’t tell if she has an issue with heights or maybe if it’s the context of our situation.
“So, is this a normal hobby of yours?” she asks.
“What do you mean?”
“Buying out amusement park rides to impress strangers,” she says. “Or do you just have a flair for the dramatic?” She offers a smile.
I offer nothing but a simple statement. “I have an aversion to drama.”
“That,” she nods. “I can believe.”
When I don’t say anything else, she leans back with a huff, twiddling her fingers, checking her nails, which are short, clean, and natural. When she turns to me again, I realize chattering is a side effect of nervousness for her.
“So why did you ask me to come on the ride?” she asks.
“Because I didn’t want to go alone,” I say.
“You don’t have a girlfriend or a wife or something?” she asks, smiling nervously.
“If I had a girlfriend or a wife or something, I wouldn’t have asked you,” I say.
“Right,” she says, biting her bottom lip, and I adjust in my seat.
She shouldn’t do that…it makes things…harder.
“Okay, but why me?” she asks. “Why not my sister?”
Sister. Her words solidify what I assumed. She is, in fact, the second daughter of Jim Blythe. The only reason I recognized the other one is because she’s an attention whore and everyone in the hospitality industry knows who she is. I run half of the industry; I definitely know who she is. I never really paid attention to this sister before, though. I’ll admit, with her bottle-green eyes, heart-shaped face, no-nonsense attitude and those impossibly perfect pink lips, I regret only noticing her now.
“I have no interest in your sister,” I tell her flatly, and she snorts, catching me off guard a little.
“Well then, Mr.…?”
“My name is Ash,” I state.
