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“That’s okay,” she laughs. “Who knows? If they hadn’t pulled out a corny librarian pickup line, we might not be here together now.”
“No, I definitely wasn’t letting you out of there without some kind of plan to see you again,” I say, and I can see her smiling brightly even in the dark.
God, she’s gorgeous, and it’s a real struggle to keep my eyes from wandering down her body in that dress, which I’m starting to think she wore just to torture me.
“How long have you worked at the outreach center?” she asks, our hands meeting inside the popcorn bag. I don’t withdraw mine right away, and she lets her fingers linger over mine before pulling out a handful of kernels.
“Since the beginning,” I say. “We’ve been open for two years now.”
“I’m impressed,” she says. “You’ve done a lot in just two years, and the kids obviously love you, Mr. P.”
I let out a chuckle. “Oh, please don’t call me that.”
“Why not?”
“Next time one of the kids calls me that, all I’ll be able to think about is you in this dress.” Now, I’m completely brazen in allowing my eyes to travel down over the swell of her breasts and her supple hips.
“Shh!” Someone a couple rows ahead of us hisses as the opening credits to Casablanca begin, and I guess that’s my cue to shut the hell up.
We settle down in our seats, the popcorn bag wedged between us. Our hands find each other a couple more times inside the bag, and a few minutes into the movie, I can feel Brooklyn’s body quivering where her shoulder meets mine.
“Cold?” I whisper.
She nods. “Yeah, I forgot how intense the air conditioning is in here.”
I shimmy out of my suit jacket and slide it over her shoulders, and then because the popcorn bag is empty and I’m feeling bold like Humphrey Bogart, I wrap my arm around her shoulders too. She snuggles into me, and I catch the scent of her perfume, sweet and lively, just like her.
We walk out of the theater an hour and a half later, hands linked and reminiscing about the old movies we like. I’m partial to Apocalypse Now, but her favorite Marlon Brando is On the Waterfront. We agree that everything Hitchcock is fantastic, and when I confess that I’ve never seen Citizen Kane, Brooklyn promises to track down the DVD at the library and introduce me to it.
“What now?” she asks as we wander down the sidewalk toward the festival, my jacket slung over my shoulder and her red dress back on full display in the late August air.
“Let’s ride the carousel,” I say. “I haven’t seen Casablanca in years, and I probably haven’t ridden a carousel in at least a decade. You want to?”
“I’m game,” she says.
We buy a couple tickets and I take her hips in my hands to lift her up to sit side-saddle on a unicorn. Then I climb onto a mighty steed beside her, feeling ridiculous and euphoric and strangely in love. It can’t happen this fast… can it?
Brooklyn yelps when the carousel starts and grabs onto the pole in front of her. She’s unsteady, trying to ride in that little dress, and I can’t wait to come to her rescue. I reach across the aisle, take her hand, tell her I’ve got her, hold her steady.
“Thanks,” she says, catching her breath.
“Was this a dumb idea?” I ask, but she shakes her head adamantly.
“No, this is perfect.” Her expression darkens for just a second—a flash and then it’s gone—and she adds, “I told you and the teens back at the outreach center that my life hasn’t been very easy… the truth is I haven’t had a lot of happy memories, but this is definitely one of them. Tonight has been amazing, Prescott.”
“Yes, it has,” I agree. “And you deserve as many happy memories as you can handle.”
What I’m thinking, but I don’t say because I don’t want to scare this poor woman off, is that the more time I spend with her, the more I want to be the one to make those happy memories for her.
When the ride ends, I lift her down off the unicorn, her curves brushing against my body and sending a powerful jolt of primal need through me. If I wasn’t sure it was a crime, I’d take her right here, pin her between my mighty steed and my mighty… well, you get the idea.
I clear my throat and say, “Corn dog?”
“Yummy.”
We track down some good, old-fashioned fried foods, then sit at a picnic table to enjoy a smorgasbord of not only corn dogs but cotton candy, waffle fries and a funnel cake, which leaves a cute little dot of powdered sugar right on the tip of Brooklyn’s nose.
“You’ve got something there,” I say, pointing at my own nose.
