Page 81 of Cherry Picking

But I can at least establish some ground rules for the next forty-eight hours. I’ll say what I want out loud. I’ll let Briggs show me his city, and when he looks at me like I’m the only person in the room, I won’t hide behind a joke.

After that, I’ll come home and go back to real life.

CHAPTER 23

BRIGGS

Evie’s flight is meant to touch down at 4:52 p.m., but I’m already idling at the curb by half past the hour. I didn’t want to pace around my condo, so I left early just to have something to do.

The last time I did this, I was waiting for Ophelia. That was three Novembers ago. She’d come out for a week at a time, complaining about the Carolina humidity before we even cleared the parking deck, and I’d stand right here with my hazards blinking.

I haven’t let myself think about that in a long time.

When a pair of traffic cops give me the “move it or lose it” look, I give up on the curb and circle the terminal loop instead of just parking in the deck like a rational person.

On the third pass, Evie finally emerges from the terminal. She’s wearing all black—a long heavy coat over a silk slip dress, boots, and a black canvas duffel slung over one shoulder. Sunglasses on, at dusk, in February.

Her hair is loose, and as she gets closer, I notice a few more white streaks threaded through the copper than the last time I saw her. When she spots the SUV, she pushes the shades up into her hair, her whole face breaking into a grin.

I’m out of the car before she can reach the curb, taking the bag off her shoulder.

“You look like you’re here to collect a debt.”

“I spent four hours next to a man who narrated a nature documentary out loud, Briggs. Spare me.” She looks me over once, thumb reaching up to graze the edge of my mustache.

I briefly lose the ability to produce coherent thought.

“It’s getting longer,” she says.

“Hair tends to do that.”

She smiles, that sharp, knowing thing. “You don’t say.”

Then she gets up on her toes and kisses me. Right there in the loading zone, with one hand flat against my chest and the cold air biting at my neck. A shuttle bus lays on the horn behind us, the sound massive and intrusive, but neither of us moves an inch.

“Hi,” she murmurs against my mouth.

“Hi.” My heart is currently trampling over itself. “I didn’t know we were doing this.”

“I thought we might try an experiment for the weekend.”

I swipe a thumb across my bottom lip, trying to find my bearings. “Kissing me is an experiment.”

“Sort of.” She shrugs. “I just mean that if we want to do something, we do it. If we want to skip something, we skip it. No overthinking or long lists of reasons. What do you think?”

“I think I’d have agreed to anything you said just now.”

I look at her, letting the reality of her being here settle in. She’s in my city, breathing the same air as me. And she’s even more vibrant than I remembered, her presence cutting through the gray February light like a neon sign.

“Are you just going to stand there and appreciate the scenery, or are you going to put my bag in the car?”

I put her bag in the car.

She sheds the coat the second the heater kicks on, and I have to make a conscious decision about where my eyes live for the next twenty-five minutes.

The dress she’s wearing is short and dangerous. She has silver jewelry stacked on her fingers, the cross at her throat, and a smudge of eyeliner she must’ve applied in the dark during a 5:00 a.m. Vegas morning.

“You’re staring,” she says drily, not looking away from the side mirror.