Page 96 of Sweeter Than Fiction

“Abby, nothing could get under your nails if it wanted to.”

I laugh. “Fair point. So, where are we going?”

“Hey, you got to have your surprise earlier. Let me have mine,” he says with a smile.

“But I’m much more impatient than you,” I quip.

“I know. But I’ll make with worth your while.”

“With the surprise or with your penis?” I ask.

He grins. “Yes.”

“Is the surprise your penis?”

“You get that all the time. How would that be special?”

My mouth drops. “Uhm, clearly, you’ve never been fucked by that thing, or you wouldn’t be asking how it’s special.”

He reaches over and takes my hand in his. “You’re something else. Do you know that?”

“Something else good, or something else bad?”

“Oh, very, very good.”

We pull into a big empty field that’s surrounded by trees. “Don, what exactly are we doing? As much fun as I had earlier, I don’t know that I want to get dirty again. That would be my third shower of the day. Your mom is going to send us an invoice for her water bill.”

“Oh, I’ve got something else in mind,” he says as he parks the truck. “I think I dropped my phone between the seats. Do you think you could look for it real quick? I have to grab something out of the back.”

“Uh, sure.”

Once he gets out, I shove my hand in between all the cushions but feel nothing. I look on the floor and in the console. Still nothing.

To find it, I pull out my phone to call it to see if I can hear exactly where it slipped to. But I don’t hear anything. Did he leave it back at the house?

Wait…

I think I hear something. It gets louder, and when Don opens my door, I can hear it perfectly.

“Don, was it in your pocket the whole time?”

He holds out his hand for mine as I end the call. “I have a confession.”

“Okay?”

“I didn’t really lose my phone. I just needed to keep you distracted for a minute.”

“Distracted from what?” I ask as he leads me to the back of the truck.

But when I see it, I don’t need an answer anymore. In the back of the pickup truck, there’s blankets laid down and pillows propped up against the cab. A big picnic basket sits in the middle, and a set of string lights is draped around the bed.

“What is this?” I ask.

“Well, you said you never really get to see the sunset back in New York. While we are here, I figured I’d give you a front-row seat for one.”

He walks me to the back and helps me up into the bed, telling me to get comfortable. When he joins me, he opens the picnic basket, pulling out a bottle of wine and a couple of red plastic cups.

“Sorry, I couldn’t find any fancy wine glasses,” he says.

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