Page 10 of Saving Ian Pope

I snorted, despite myself. “Yeah, that lot. Don’t you like to read?”

“Honestly, I never had much time for it. Never had much time for a load of stuff.”

The sadness in his voice had me squeezing his hand, and I said, “Let’s get back to the pier. At the rate this fog is sweeping in, we might not be able to see it.”

We retraced our steps in the wet sand, our previous footprints already washed out to sea. We swung hands in companionable silence, broken by the occasional exclamation over something deposited on the beach, which we would scoop up and study before tossing it back into the ocean.

By the time we reached the wooden steps up to the pier, the majority of the beachgoers had left or relocated to the carnival rides.

Ian sat on the bottom step to the side and brushed the sand from his feet. He put on his socks and shoes and rolled down the wet hems of his jeans.

When he finished, I thrust out my hand to him, and he took it as I pulled him up. Face-to-face, he flicked a strand of hair from my cheek. “Your hair...changed.”

Smoothing my hand over the back of my hair, I said, “It’s the damp air. Makes it frizzy.”

He caught another lock of my hair and wound it around his finger. “It’s all wavy. Makes you look like a beached mermaid.”

Heat rose from my chest to my face, and I pulled away from him. “Better than a beached whale, I suppose.”

I tromped up the steps ahead of him, pulling my sweatshirt around my body. I glanced over my shoulder. “Are you cold?”

“I’m English.”

We reached the pier, and I said, “I have a surprise for you.”

“I like surprises.” Ian clapped his hands together.

Although he must’ve been a few years older than I was, Ian had an adorable childishness about him sometimes. It was part of his devastating charm—at least for me—and probably ever other girl in the Five2 fandom

“Do you like Ferris wheels?”

“Absolutely.” He raised his eyes to the big wheel churning around at the end of the pier, its colorful lights flashing, reflecting in his shining eyes. “I even like rollercoasters and those teacup things that spin you around until you’re nauseous.”

“You’re not going to vomit on the Ferris wheel, are you? That could get messy.”

“I promise not to, but if I’m feeling a bit queasy, I’ll face away from you and hurl over the side.”

“Deal.” I grabbed his hand, and we threaded our way through the crowds to the ticket booth.

I slid my credit card beneath the window. “Two tickets for the Ferris wheel, please.”

“That’s thirty dollars.”

“Bloody hell.” Ian reached for his wallet. “Hang on. If they take plastic, I’ll pay for the tickets.”

“You’re my guest. I got it.” I placed a hand on his chest, resisting the urge to run it across his defined muscles beneath the cotton of his T.

I snatched up the tickets and handed him one.

Shaking his head, he said, “Thirty quid? The bloody thing better fly for that price.”

We joined the end of the short line. The waiting would come as the wheel stopped for each car to spit out its passengers. I danced from foot to foot. I hadn’t been on this Ferris wheel for years.

The sun had officially set, although the fog had obscured its glory. The lights and motion of the pier seemed even more intense against the gray backdrop, and my senses were attuned to every nuance. My nerve endings tingled. I hadn’t felt this alive in a very long time.

Ian bumped my shoulder. “Here’s our car.”

A car swung down to the landing, and the ride operator unhitched the door and let a mom with her two kids out. He held the door open, and I stepped in first, sliding to the end of the red vinyl seat. Ian climbed in after me, and his knee hit my leg as he got comfortable.

---