Wicked Dirty (Stark World 2)

"Sugar Laine, you just paid off your loan," he says in a booming announcer-style voice. "What are you going to do now?"

I just stare at him, my eyes wide.

"Go to Disneyland?" he says, making the tagline of the familiar commercial a question.

"Lyle. I don't--" But I can't get the rest of my words out. My throat's too clogged with tears.

"Oh, shit," he says. "I'm so sorry. I thought you'd want to. You said you hadn't gone since the day of the accident, and I know how much the house means to you, and I thought that after paying it off--fuck. I asked Joy if you'd like it, but I should never have sprung it on you like this."

"No," I say, then throw my arms around him and sob against his chest. "These are happy tears." I hiccup a little, getting his T-shirt all wet.

> He holds me, letting me dump all of that emotion on him, and when my tears finally stop and my breath isn't coming in painful heaves, I take a step back and manage a broad, watery smile.

"Thank you," I say sincerely. "That's probably the most thoughtful thing anyone's ever done for me."

"I should have asked. I'm thrilled you're happy, but that was reckless of me. I was only thinking that I wanted to do something nice for you. But those could have been sad tears."

"But they weren't," I tell him. "A little melancholy mixed in, maybe, but in a good way. Thank you," I say again. "Really."

I take another deep breath, then check the time again. "Yeah," I say. "Lunch on the road." I glance down at my jeans, T-shirt, and canvas flats. "I'm good to go now if you are."

"Then let's hit the road."

It's not as simple as that, of course. His car is parked in a lot four blocks from the bank, and then we have to navigate to In-N-Out for our mobile lunch. After that, we hit traffic getting to the freeway, and then, of course, there's construction on the 91. So by the time we actually park, get our tickets, and step onto Main Street, it's almost five o'clock.

I really don't care, though. We still have lots of hours, and I fully intend to cram in as much as possible.

To his credit, Lyle doesn't balk at my insanity, which starts out on Main Street at the theater where we watch Steamboat Willie and all the other vintage cartoons. Then we start working our way through the park, seeing all my favorites from my childhood, especially Pirates of the Caribbean.

We shoot aliens with Buzz Lightyear, go underwater in the submarine, and zip around the Matterhorn. And, because you're really never too old, we also hit the carousel.

We hold hands for every ride, which I enjoy more than I probably should considering our relationship is pretend. He holds my hand while we walk, too, which makes sense in case we're seen. But he's in a ball cap and sunglasses, and as far as I can tell, no one recognizes him.

Best of all, he puts up with all my detours, my squeals of delight when I see a character walking the street, and my very frequent window-shopping excursions, during one of which he buys me a vintage Mickey tank top.

I'm pretty much in heaven, and by the time the Electric Light Parade starts at eight forty-five, I'm also exhausted.

"We can stay longer," Lyle says from our primo spot on Main Street. "But if you're hungry, I have a reservation at one of the restaurants at the Disneyland Hotel."

Except for some snacks from the fruit stand in Adventureland, we haven't eaten since lunch. I hadn't felt hungry before, but now my stomach growls. Loudly.

We both laugh. "Maybe dinner would be a good idea," I say, taking his hand. "Thank you so much. Really. This was one of my best days ever."

"Mine, too," he says.

The restaurant is Steakhouse 55, and when we're seated with our wine and bread, I remember that I'd intended to apologize for Greg's punch, but got sidetracked by the stunning diamond now glowing in the dim light.

"He's just overprotective," I say now, after delivering the belated apology.

He nods thoughtfully. "Is there something between you two?"

"What? No. Well," I amend, "we're trying to start a business. But there's nothing sexual between us, if that's what you mean."

"Do you want there to be?" He asks the question casually, but there's an undercurrent of heat in his voice. And I can't deny that I like it.

"No," I say firmly.

"Good," he says, and that heat seems to settle inside me, warming my blood and making me tingle.