Page 54 of You're The One
“You’re right. I can’t get rid of my walking partner.” He drapes an arm over my shoulders.
I kind of like the weight of it. The warmth.
“I guess I’ll keep you around,” he adds at last.
I smile, and it’s not the sardonic one I save for him.
Another first.
“Cool.”
“Cool,” he echoes, flashing his lopsided smile.
And okay… maybe it’s not so bad.
BEEKEEPER
WEEK 3
EIGHTEEN
Dominic kepthis promise to keep me around—I even got the first rose last week. This time, I got a basic one, like all the other girls. I haven’t received a Hellebore since the first week. I think I prefer the odd flower.
At least our walks have stayed consistent, continuing every day.
Our conversations run the gamut: light, weird, occasionally too honest. Earlier in the week, a string of random questions turned into a game of Two Truths and a Lie. I guessed Dominic’s on the first try, not that he made it hard.
“My mom let me have a pet raccoon, but when my dad found out, he called animal control. I’ve broken my nose twice. And I’ve never seen The Notebook,” he’d said.
Obviously, The Notebook was a lie. No way a guy who’s that much of a hopeful romantic—and who not-so-secretly reads romance novels—hasn’t seen it at least once. I’d bet money he’s watched it multiple times. Possibly cried.
Mine were: “I’m terrified of turtles, my middle name is Madonna, and my dream vacation is Hawaii.”
“Well, isn’t that a coincidence?” He’d chuckled. “Now I know why you really came.”
“I told you that from the start,” I’d insisted.
He’d guessed the turtle. I threw him with the middle name.
My dad once told me how my mom joked about naming me after her favorite pop star when she was pregnant. He vetoed it. But after we lost her, he changed his mind. And that’s how I ended up with a middle name that usually gets me raised eyebrows and follow-up questions.
It’s weird, but I like it.
Dominic laughed so hard he nearly tripped over driftwood. But when I told him the full story, he said he liked it, too.
A couple of days after that, we didn’t walk so much as collapse onto the sand and stare at the sky. He claimed his body was too sore to move. Apparently, his one-on-one with River involved trampolines. He said it was more exhausting than sixty minutes of hockey. I didn’t argue, though I had my doubts.
The ocean was still dusky, but sunlight had started creeping over the hills, tinting everything in soft gold and pale pink, when I admitted that our daily walks aren’t quite enough anymore.
That familiar buzz is starting to crawl under my skin again. I’m not the only one going stir-crazy in that house, but I feel it more than most.
I’m eager to move again. One more week until we head to Chicago. I didn’t think I’d be this ready to go home, but the change of scenery will be nice, and seeing my brother and Hannah will be good. I’m not sure I’ll get to see my parents, though, since the plan is for all the women to meet Dominic’s family. Which, of course, includes Ryan.
Yesterday, he surprised me with coffee. I guess he finally got tired of me complaining about the mansion’s Keurig and its weak bean-water—it doesn’t even qualify as coffee.
He brewed it with some fancy espresso machine in his place, but one sip told me he should probably stick to taking shots on the ice. It was so bitter it made my eyes water. I managed a fewsips before I “accidentally” tipped it over, the sludge melting into the sand.
Still, it’s the thought that counts.
