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“You weren’t at the warehouse.”
“Yeah, I took the day off.”
“So Jenny said.”
“Why were you looking for me?” I try to keep my voice neutral but fail.
Rowan smirks at me.
The man behind us taps on his shoulder. “Excuse me. You can’t skip the line. We’ve been waiting here for forty minutes already.”
He sends a withering glance over his shoulder. “I own the place.”
“Yeah, right. And I’m Santa Claus.” The man tugs on his white beard.
“Google the name Rowan Kane. I’ll wait.” Rowan taps his shoe against the floor.
There’s something about Rowan’s voice that makes everyone follow his bidding. It’s oddly fascinating to watch as the man pulls out his cellphone and taps away at the screen.
The man’s scowl drops as the color drains from his face. “I’m sorry, Mr. Kane. I didn’t mean to yell at you. We just feel strongly about line skippers here.”
“I’m sure that’s the case with anyone who can’t afford a quick skip pass,” he responds in the driest voice.
My jaw drops open. “You shouldn’t talk to people like that.” I turn around, giving Rowan my back. No wonder everyone avoids him. He has the emotional maturity of a robot and the appeal of rush hour traffic.
The couple from Kansas starts up our conversation again, and I focus on them. Rowan’s loafer taps against the floor as he faces my back. I don’t care if he throws a tantrum. He can wait in the line in silence for all I care.
Rowan sighs so loud, it rattles my bones. Whatever look he shoots toward the couple has them shutting up. They turn around and start chatting with one another, completely ignoring me.
I look over my shoulder to find him staring at me. “Yes?”
“Are you going to finally explain why we’re waiting in a line when we can go ahead and skip everyone?”
“I’m experiencing the park from the perspective of a guest so I can come up with ideas for the very people you’re trying to appeal to.”
“How noble of you.” His nose scrunches. I swear he tried his hardest not to say something insulting this time.
“If you hate the idea so much, then go back to your fancy office. No one asked you to come here. Actually, wait. Whyareyou here?”
“I—” He pauses. “I don’t know.” His brows draw together.
Whatever is happening in his brain shuts him up. Both of us remain silent while waiting in line, with both of us lost in our thoughts.
Why is he really here, and why does it make me giddy to know he decided to wait in line with me despite hating the idea?
We finally make it to the front of the line after ten minutes. The Spooky Castle ride is one of the classic attractions at Dreamland, based on a haunted castle somewhere in England from one of The Kane Company’s movies. Each cart is shaped like a half-moon, with a black seat large enough to fit three people.
A man dressed in an old-school three-piece suit calls out to us. “How many in your party?”
“One,” I reply at the same time Rowan says, “Two.”
The attendant shifts his weight from foot to foot. “Umm, please hurry. The cart is leaving.”
I rush and enter the small black seat. My temple throbs as Rowan slides in and pulls down the lever, trapping us in the cart together.
“Why can’t you leave me alone?” I croak.
“I wish I knew.” He says the words so low, I wonder if I made them up.
