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We don’t speak again until I pull up to the wrestling school, which is a large warehouse-type building on the outskirts of town. It used to house a paper company, but when that went out of business, Waylon Moffatt bought it and turned into the wrestling school he’d always wanted. Now a respectable-looking brick sign sits out front announcing it to be the Cherry Creek Wrestling Entertainment School.
“Huh,” Ollie says, frowning. “It’s real. I almost didn’t believe it.”
“It’s real, all right.” I get out of the car. “Now let’s just hope Waylon has the book itself and not just another clue for us.”
We end up disappointed on all counts. Waylon isn’t even there, so we don’t know what he may or may not be in possession of. The custodian, Bud, tells us class is done for the day and we might be able to find Waylon at his favorite haunt, The Cheery Cherry Bar, so we move on.
The Cheery Cherry is all decked out for Christmas. I haven’t been here in years, but it looks the same as it always has with the exception of the large, decorated Christmas tree taking up half of the dance floor in front of the jukebox. Boughs of greenery and holly hang from every rafter, and a scarecrow dressed as Santa sits alone at the back corner table.
We ask the bartender, but Waylon isn’t there either. Oliver glances at his watch. “Do you want to call it quits for today? Pick up the search tomorrow when the wrestling school opens?”
It’s true that nothing else can be accomplished tonight. More than that, I don’t even need Oliver anymore because only the first clue required a committed couple as far as I know. Really, Ollie could ditch me any time, and I’d probably still be able to get the book for Felicity. But I’m not ready to part with him yet.
“Are you hungry? I’m hungry. We could get dinner,” I say hopefully. “Felicity isn’t working tonight, so I don’t have to hurry home.”
Oliver looks around with obvious skepticism. “Have dinner here?”
I’m sure The Cheery Cherry is nowhere near as nice as the fancy Chicago restaurants I assume he frequents, but we’re already here, so the convenience can’t be beat.
“Yeah!” I take his arm and pull him over to one of the booths. “They’ve got good bar food. Burgers, sandwiches, onion rings. Basically anything fried is a specialty here.”
He glances at his watch again. “Okay. But I’ve got to text my mom and tell her not to wait on me for dinner.”
“Okay.”
Oliver texts his mom, and I drum my fingers on the table in rhythm to the pop song I’m barely registering playing in the background. That song ends, and my fingers pause. The opening notes to “You’re Beautiful” by James Blunt float through the air, and my head snaps up. It’s a song I love, a song from the past, and it always makes me think of lost connections, of what might have been if things hadn’t turned out differently. If Oliver hadn’t moved away. If his whole life wasn’t somewhere else entirely right now.
Oliver’s eyes go to mine, and I realize he’s feeling the same way. The hungry look in his gaze says that he’s right there with me.
“Do you want to dance?” he asks.
“Definitely.” My voice is almost breathless.
Two couples are already out on the floor. This song means something to more people than just me…and Oliver. We leave our coats on our seats. Oliver holds a hand out to me, and I take it, his touch inciting an electrical current that zings up my arm. We step out onto the dance floor. He puts his arms around me, and we start to sway. I tip my chin up and find his eyes on mine with a studied, deep look in their clear pools as he watches me. I’m suddenly aware of every molecule of contact between us. My arms around his neck. His arms around my back. The press of his body against mine as the music and lyrics dip and swirl around us.
I feel myself melting. More than just my body, which seems to be a mass of excited sparks in his arms. My heart is melting too. Memories of Oliver meld with the very real man in front of me. The boy who was always there for me. The man who’s here with me now. My will starts to melt too. My determination to make good decisions for the future—to avoid having feelings for someone who is geographically unavailable—seems to retreat behind my growing desire to enjoy the moment here with Oliver now, even though he’ll be gone after Christmas. Maybe taking my heart with him.
That can’t happen.
“I’ve got to go,” I say, leaning back and stepping out of reach, out of touch.
Oliver’s lips turn down, and his eyes swim up from a dazed expression. “Uh, sure.” He combs his fingers through his hair. “You’re not hungry anymore?”
Not for food. And I definitely shouldn’t be hungry for anything else. I don’t have time or space in my life for an attraction to Oliver. And we’re miles apart, geographically. My greedy little desire to be held and to dance with him is impractical and completely unproductive. “No, thanks. I’ll drive you home. You can tell your mom the disruption in dinner plans is all my fault. I’m sorry.” I start back toward our booth.
“Amelia,” he calls, and I turn. “Can I join you in the morning to go after the next clue?” His eyes appear uncertain, and my pulse stutters.
I take a deep breath. “Sure.”
He smiles, and there’s an answering flutter in my ribcage that I quickly try to squash.
Oliver and I are just friends, I tell myself sternly. He lives in Chicago, and I live in Cherry Creek. Friends are all we’ll ever be.
ChapterNine
Oliver
I don’t know why Amelia freaked out last night. One moment we were having a great time, planning a greasy dinner and connecting body and soul on the dance floor, and the next moment she’s barely slowing her car down as she drops me off at my house, speeding away so fast her back tires kick up gravel on the way out.
