The One Month Boyfriend (Wildwood Society)

“Excuse me,” a woman’s voice says.

I turn to realize that I nearly whacked someone in the face, and all the blood in my body rushes to my face.

“Oh,” I gasp, pulling my arm in. “Shit, I didn’t—I mean, sorry?”

Her lips thin and she takes a deep breath, looking at me like I’m a cross between a garden pest and a skateboarding teen.

“So sorry, ma’am,” Silas says, and there he is, ducking around me, the smile on his face perfectly combining contrition and handsomeness. “That was my fault. I got a little carried away. Apologies.”

I swear, I watch her deflate, and she nods.

“Just watch what you’re doing?” she says, shoots me a final glare, and walks off. I clear my throat, take a demure bite of cotton candy, and exchange looks with Silas. Together, we start walking along the well-trodden dirt lane of the fair, a few clumps of near-dead but very brave grass still poking up here and there from the reddish ground.

I wonder what it’s like to be Silas. To be able to smile and suddenly have people like you, or at least not bite your head off. To just… do whatever you want and then be forgiven for it so long as you apologize and say ma’am. The same words from my mouth never seem to quite have the same effect.

Maybe it’s the resting bitch face I’ve been assured I have. Maybe it’s old-fashioned misogyny, or casual racism, or a fun mix of all three. I just know I never seem to inspire friendliness.

“So,” Silas says as we turn to a smaller lane, between two low-slung cinderblock buildings. “If you want to—”

“Ayerp!” I squeal as he practically lunges for the cotton candy. I spin and barely get it out of his reach, fighting back the urge to start laughing. “No!” I exclaim, breathless. “It’s mine—”

His hand closes around my wrist and then his body is inches from mine and he’s grinning down at me and I discover I’ve got nothing to say. Instead I squeeze his right hand where it’s still in my left and tug, as if that’ll pull him away from the cotton candy I’ve still got held aloft.

It does nothing, obviously, except widen his grin and deepen the crinkles next to his lake-blue eyes. I give him my best glare through my glasses, even though we both know there’s no heat behind it.

“Please?” he says, his voice suddenly deeper and softer, and God, I’m aware. I’m aware that I’m flirting like a fourteen-year-old who’s never kissed anyone before, and I’m aware that there’s no one else in this spot between the two buildings, and I’m aware of his hand on my wrist and of the fact that we’re both a little damp with sweat.

And of the cotton candy thread right below his bottom lip. It’s a single soft strand, so small I can’t tell whether it’s blue or pink, but it’s stuck to the spot where his skin curves down from his lip and God, I want to lick it off. I want to lick it off that it’s all I can think about: the way my tongue would curl against his lip and the way he would taste salty and sweet and how his skin would be rough and his mouth would be soft and whether it would turn into a kiss or whether he’d release me and back away because licking another human is not a normal thing to do.

“One little taste,” he says in that same too-low, too-private voice, his fingers sliding on my wrist as I finally collect my wits.

“No,” I tell him, chin up, and pull my wrist hard enough that it slides from his grip, turning away with my arm extended. “You already ate half of it without even ask—”

Then his arm is around my waist, my back to his chest, and he’s pulling me against him with both our arms extended away from us.

I make an undignified noise, somewhere between a yelp and a squeak while Silas laughs.

“You’re not even gonna eat it all,” he says, fingers outstretched.

“No!” I squeal. “Noooooo!”

The sound breaks apart into a short, high-pitched laugh, and his arms tighten, and I don’t need to look to know that Silas is grinning against my hair.

“Kat,” he says, and I inhale sharply because oh fuck his mouth is close to my ear, his voice even lower and rumblier than before and there’s no one else around and therefore no reason for us to be acting like we’re in our teens, not our thirties. “Did you just giggle?”

My hand’s over his where it clutches my waist, his arm even warmer than the blistering summer day. I wonder if he can tell how sweaty the back of my neck is or if he cares. The hem of my sundress rises slightly with the pull.

I wonder if he’d let me feed it to him. If he’d lick my fingers after each bite the way he licks his own. The thought leaves me breathless.

“Of course I didn’t giggle,” I finally say, mustering all the dignity I can.

“That sounded… giggly,” he says and sweet fancy Jesus he’s even closer to my ear, close enough that goosebumps shiver down my spine despite the heat.

“Cotton candy is no giggling matter,” I say, and plunge my fingertips between his fingers against my waist. “Unhand me, you scoundrel.”

He laughs as I squeeze my eyes shut against the fact that I said something straight out of a bodice ripper from the eighties instead of something flirty and cute and girlfriendy. For one moment he pulls me against him even tighter, his heat soaking into me, his shirt sticking to my bare upper back.

And then he unhands me and I whirl away, facing him as I back up and praying that I don’t look anything like I feel.