Page 171 of The Vacation Mix-Up
I’m tempted to say,“You,”but my tummy has other ideas. “Pasta. A big, fat bowl of pasta.”
“Keep talking like that,” he says, kissing my head, “and Mom is definitely going to love you.”
I smile, but the uncertainty of what will happen after our trip of a lifetime ends tightens my chest. We were supposed to take this slow and steady for that exact reason, but I screwed that up, unable to restrain myself any longer. “About that, Riley. We dock in Le Havre three days from now. Our cruise will be over. What… What happens next?”
“We fly back to the States.”
I roll my eyes at him. “You know what I mean.”
“We’ll fly back to the States and then take each day as it comes. Easy. It’s only a two-hour drive from Buxtonville to Manhattan.”
I nod and snuggle into his warmth, even though I’m unconvinced it will be as “easy” as he says. Long-distance relationships are hard, or so I’ve heard. They require commitment, effort, and travel. Lots and lots of travel.
“This isn’t it, Riles. I told you I don’t do one-night stands, and I don’t plan to start now. I want to see you again. And again, and again, and again.” He tips my chin up and places a soft kiss on my lips. “We’ll make it work. Whatever it takes.”
Sighing at the promise in his eyes, I tether myself to his sincerity and roll on top of him. “I like the sound of that.”
“I should hope so.” He combs his fingers through my hair. “When are you flying home?”
“Midnight. The day we disembark.”
“JFK or LaGuardia?”
“LaGuardia.”
“My flight to Philly is an hour before yours.”
Pouting, I can already feel his absence, my heartbeat an irregular rhythm.
“We could always change our flights, stay in Paris for a few days, and fly back together?”
“I wish I could,” I say, smoothing out his chest hair. “But I can’t. I have to get back to work.”
“Ah, yes. You mustn’t upset Georgia the Torturer.”
Playfully glaring at him, I pluck one solitary hair.
“Ow! That wasn’t very nic?—”
“Speaking of work, I have to put in a couple of hours tonight. I’m behind on the manuscript.”
He draws in a deep breath, lifts his arms, links his hands behind his head, and exhales while staring at the ceiling.
I sit upright, straddling his lap. “What was that for?”
His eyes flick to my chest. “What was what for?”
“That frustrated puff thing you did.”
“Puff thing?”
“Yes.”
“I don’tpuff, sweetheart. I’m not the big, bad wolf.”
Slapping his chest, I grumble and climb off him. “I’m gonna take a shower.”
“You need more shampoo.”
