Page 72 of Winging It with You

Here you are.

This feels like one of those made-for-television moments, which…is ironic because, well, you know. Like the state championship basketball game when Lucas Scott tells Peyton SawyerIt’s you, except instead of confetti floating gracefully around us, Theo and I are surrounded by, covered in, and choking on tomato guts.

I throw myself at him, which I know takes him by surprise because he staggers backward ever so slightly. But he quickly recovers, wraps an arm around my waist, and pulls me close to him.

And before either of us can say anything that might somehow rip us from the magic of this moment, I crash my lips to his.

Without a single camera in sight and because it’s entirely what I want.

What I need.

And whatever has been holding me—both of us—back from breaking that last remaining rule is snipped away with each brush of our lips.

Finally.

21

Theo

Nusa Lembongan Seaweed Farm

Bali, Indonesia

“Here, throw these on,” Jo says, pushing a rubber-coated bundle into my arms. I untangle the wad of fabric, revealing two bright-blue wet suits, which I hold up for Asher to see. We caught an overnight flight to Bali and I’m fairly certain we’re all going on a collective four hours of sleep at this point.

“Great,” he says, melting in his chair. “More water.” I toss one of the suits at him.

“Fingers crossed this time won’t end in us being lost at sea.” I rather forcefully pull the tight spandex up my legs and over my shorts.

He scowls at me and does the same. “You’re still bringing that up? We got rescued by the coast guardonetime.” But even he can’t hide his toothy grin.

“Oh, I’ll be bringing up nearly being lost at sea with you for the rest of my life.”

These little back-and-forth moments between us are the only things keeping me going the last few weeks. I know I can count on Asher to have some snarky remark ready to go—and to have the last word, always.

“Let’s go, people,” Russell shouts, emerging through the flaps of the tent, the expected stressed expression painted across his face.

“A little help here?” I ask, struggling with my wet suit’s zipper.

Asher comes over and, using one hand as leverage on my shoulder, yanks up my difficult zipper with the other. Before he leaves, he plants a lingering kiss on the back of my neck.

“What was that for?” I ask softly, leaning back into him.

“Oh, you know…just in case we die.” His chin is now rested on my shoulder, and I can feel him smile.

“Ha ha.”

“Now do me,” he says. When I turn around, I notice an instant flush of red flooding his cheeks. “I mean…don’t do me. Oh, God.” He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “Canyouplease zipmyzipper?”

“Well, go ahead and turn around so I can do you,” I tease. He groans but does as he’s told. I slide his finicky zipper closed and let my hands rest on his shoulders. I find myself feeling more emboldened to do what’s natural with Asher—to say what’s on my mind or follow my body in each moment.

But on some level, I think I’m still holding back.

All this—everything we’ve been through together—is starting to feel real. And as easy as it is to get swept up in the moment, I haven’t allowed myself to get this close torealwith anyone since Ethan. The thought alone is enough to make me take a metaphorical and physical step back.

He must sense a shift in my energy, because he turns to look up at me with his inquisitive eyes. “All good?” he asks.

“All good,” I offer with a smile, and Jo starts to lead us down toward the beach with Arthur circling around us, his camera stabilized firmly against his chest. “Did you think we’d get here?”

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