Page 82 of Get A Fix

His mouth fell open.

I pressed my lips together really tight so I would not laugh.

“What the hell is that?” He sounded absolutely appalled.

“You gotta shake on it.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” he assured me.

“You’ve had your tongue in my mouth, but spit on my palm is gross?”

“Yes. Utterly disgusting.”

“I don’t care. Shake.”

“I really don’t think this is necessary for⁠—”

“Now!” I yelled at him.

He spit into his hand, barely, and then we shook and I made sure to squeeze his hand so he could feel how slimy my palm was.

“This is worse than I thought.”

“Would you rather we sealed it in blood?”

“Who are you?”

I leaned in then, and he cupped my cheek with his non-saliva-smeared hand before he kissed me.

“You are so weird,” he murmured between kisses.

I chuckled, and he sighed deeply.

“Do you wanna wash your hands?”

“Yes, please,” he snapped.

We found a bathroom in the lobby, washed up, borrowed a golf umbrella from the concierge, who had a lot of them lined up ready to go in front of her counter, and headed out to find wherever it was the bride and groom had gone to have lunch.

As we walked along the sidewalk, skirting puddles, dodging other pedestrians, and bracing in the wind, Ash grumbled, “It’s so much colder here than I expected. What is it, like, twenty?”

I scoffed. “Oh, baby, you are not gonna make it in Chicago.”

“Already? You decided that so quickly?”

“I suspect seasons are not your idea of fun.”

“That’s not true. It gets very brisk in LA.”

“Does it? Really?” I baited him.

“Listen—”

“When the wind comes off Lake Michigan in January, you’ll die,” I said flatly. “You’ll just fall over and die.”

“I will not. I’ve been to Reykjavík.”

“And how much time did you spend outside in Reykjavík?”