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“I don’t thinkI can ever trust you to plan a hike again,” Charlize says fifteen minutes into our drive home from Breakneck Ridge.
I take my eye off the road for a moment and look at her. She’s fucking sexy in her hiking gear, especially after having hiked. I love her hair when it’s a flyaway mess, and her face when it’s free of make-up and flushed. “Why?”
“Well, for one, I have never had to scramble like that before. I am not a rock climber, Owen. If the golf you play is extreme golfing like your extreme hiking, I’m out for that.”
“We were hardly rock climbing today.” Before choosing the hike, I established that she’d be able to manage the scrambling, and she did great. I would never have put her in harm’s way.
“It was hardly just walking, though, either.”
I frown, wondering if I misread her when we discussed the hikes she’s done in the past. “Were you not okay with today’s hike?”
She releases a breath and angles her body to face me. “I was a little unprepared for it mentally, that’s all.”
“Would you do it again?”
“Yes. Now that I’ve done it once, I know what to expect.”
I make a mental note about this. I never want Charlize to feel anxious over something when I can help her prepare for it.
I glance at her again. “I apologize. I forget that not everyone’s like me.”
“You like the thrill of the unexpected?”
“Not always, but generally. And I’m good with risk. But I’ll remember you prefer to know what’s coming.”
“Thank you.” A text sounds on her phone and as she reads it, she exclaims, “Oh my God! Harry Styles is performing at The Rooftop at Pier 17 next month! We have to go.”
“He’s the One Direction guy?”
“Have you not listened to his music since then?”
“No.”
“You work too much. Harry has moved past One Direction. You’re going to love him.”
“When is it?”
She rattles off a date at which point I say, “I’ll check my calendar and let you know. If I don’t have anything on, I’m in.”
The smile she gives me is another one of those smiles I’d do anything to receive. “I totally get it if you’re already busy, but I hope you’re free.”
We fill the rest of the drive home with a conversation about the bad movie she’s chosen for us to watch tonight after I cook her dinner, her confusion over why Bon Jovi isn’t higher on my list of favorite bands, the next hike we’ll take, our favorite places we’ve visited in Europe, and another discussion about whether Elvis really is dead.
After she’s finished trying to convince me he isn’t dead, she shifts in her seat and groans about how stiff her body is. “I’m going to need a long, hot bath when we get back to your place.” She looks at me questioningly. “Are you a bath fan?”
“I can’t recall the last time I had a bath. I would have been a child.”
She appears shocked. “Are you being serious right now? You have that massive bath in your bathroom.”
“It came with the place.”
“How long have you lived there?”
“Eight months.”
“Oh, my goodness, Owen, we are taking a bath this afternoon. I can’t believe you’ve lived with that beautiful bath for that long and never enjoyed it.”
My phone vibrates with a text message. It’s the fourth one that’s come in during the drive. The fourth one I haven’t checked.
