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He then reaches forward, holding it close to my mouth and I think I have stopped breathing.
My heart slams in my chest, but I force myself to hold his gaze while my lips part and Bastian carefully feeds me the chocolate-dipped fry.
The taste explodes on my tongue. It is incredible. Sweet. Salty. Hot. Cold. I focus on the flavors blending together, while I chew and pretend not to be monumentally distracted by Bastian leaning back in his chair, licking his fingers, his dark brown eyes still watching me.
Trying to snap myself out of whatever is happening between us, I bring my hand to my mouth while I finish swallowing. Not knowing what to say I just mumble, “Wonderful combination. Thank you.”
He gives me the smallest of nods, his expression sliding back into existential boredom while his attention shifts down to his food.
We finish our meal in silence.
When the waitress hands us our bill, I try to take it, but the look he gives me has my hand snapping back as if I have been burned. He pays, and we leave as I wave goodbye to the staff.
Back in the car, Bastian fishes his phone out of his pocket.
“Where to next?” he mutters.
I smile, starting the car.
“A forest made of glass.”
5
I’m standing in the middle of rows and rows of what is essentially garbage. Dusty and derelict glass bottles hoarded over time, all of them faded, all of them unnecessarilyhere. A glass forest—according to everyone else but me. The multi-colored bottles hang, like branches, off large rusted metal pipes, over six feet high, and staked in dirt.
I can’t believe this place is called an attraction. We’re in the middle of the Californian desert, the sun is beating down on my shoulders, the heat causing sweat to prickle across my forehead and down my back. My hands are stuffed in the pockets of my jeans and if the owner of this place looks at me one more time with that bright open smile of his, I’ll jam one of these bottles down his throat.
Lucy is a few rows down, busy talking to another tourist with the same zeal as hers—as if they were visiting one of the seven wonders of the world. I’d rather be shot in the head. Finding a small pocket of shade, I take my phone out to catch up on work. I’m barely getting a signal and that alone is enough to make me go nuclear. My head falls on the fence behind me, eyes closed. I take a deep breath, frustration biting at my skin, and I flex my hand open and closed, trying not to snap.
Hearing gravel under tentative footsteps nearing me, I keep my eyes closed, knowing Lucy is approaching. I can almost hear the flutter of her heart, a little bird braving the wolf.
“Done?” I say without looking at her.
“Yes,” she murmurs.
I push off the fence and let my gaze fall on her face. I’m stopped short by the sight of her. Hues of red, blue, and green bouncing off her warm brown skin, shimmers of refracting light akin to glass mosaics in a place of worship. She smiles, and I can almost imagine a hallowed light surrounding her loose curls.
The impression of her like this only lasts long enough for me to blink, but it traps my heart in a tight squeeze all the same. Her smile fades the more I stare and I do nothing to stop it. Without adding to the already stilted conversation, I lead her out of this fucking hellscape and back to the car.
When we’ve both settled in, I quirk a brow, phone in hand.Next stop?I say without a word ever leaving my mouth.
Lucy drums her fingers on the steering wheel, biting her lip. “It is getting a little late. I was thinking of simply finding a place to sleep for the night?”
“You have a place in mind?”
“Not really,” she answers with a small huffed laugh.
“All this planning and you didn’t think of researching motels?” I say unimpressed.
A flash of irritation travels across her face, but she quickly hides it behind one of her beatific smiles before looking directly at me.
“I, um… I just thought finding places to sleep last minute would be part of the charm of being on the road…” she trails off, looking like she thinks she’s getting into trouble.
I study her for a beat longer and then shrug. “Sure.”
* * *
We endup at a motel a few miles away, Highway 66 memorabilia decorates the walls of the reception and I fight an eye roll or two. The place seems deserted. I ring the bell on the counter while Lucy stands a healthy distance away from me still acting like I’ll shank her at any given moment. The clerk, a short middle-aged man with bifocal glasses and a cowlick, ambles up to the desk and greets us.
