Page 40 of Roaming Holiday

“Watch where you’re going,” Wesley says from behind me. There’s nothing in front of me, so I flap my wrist to shush him.

Suddenly, I feel his hand on my forehead, the pressure making me stumble back into his waiting palm on my waist. I look up at the stop sign that would have whacked me in the head.

“Ohhhhh,” I drawl, pointing down, then up. “I thought you meant watch out down here but you meant watch out up here.”

He sighs.

“First the club and now this. You’re such a good bodyguard.” I pat his cheek, then reach up to smack the sign, my rings clanking on the steel. “You can’t hit me! As Avril Lavigne once said, I’m the motherfucking princess.”

“All right, come on,” Wesley says, guiding me away.

I stroll down a road not ten feet wide. This one is nearly silent, save for the man sitting on a short stool playing the saxophone. Water from this afternoon’s rainfall drips from the roofs around us. Wesley is far behind me, half of his body cloaked by shadow. I ignore him and sway to the music, its smooth melodies wrapping around me. A young woman passes by, and she gives Wesley a wary look before continuing.

“People are going to think you’re stalking me if you stay that far away,” I say to him, and he shrugs. I huff, head still spinning and body still loose from alcohol. “Dance with me.”

I’m suddenly thankful for the streetlights being behind me, as the backlight will hide my surprise. Why the hell would I ask that? Alcohol takes away what little filters I already have.

Wesley barely reacts. “No.”

The ease of rejection stings—and I fight it the best I can. I convinced him to ride a moped with me. This is much less dangerous. I walk closer. “People have been staring at you for following and not talking to me. It’s creepy.”

“I’m not concerned about them.”

I suppress another roll of my eyes. “Please?”

It would be easy to miss, but I’ve spent enough time with him to notice the little sag in his shoulders. It only fuels my stubbornness. His Adam’s apple bobs and a smirk tugs at my lips. I take his hand and lower my chin to look up at him with doe eyes.

“One dance. Please?”

Wesley glares at me, knowing the trick I discovered. Yet to beat me at my own game, he presses his palm against the small of my back and pulls me against him. My chest slams into his hard enough to knock the air from my lungs and fan the hair around my face.

“One dance,” he says in a stern voice.

If only he knew I’d give him hell just to hear him talk to me like that again. It takes all my will not to melt entirely onto him, which means there’s none left over to curb the desire clenching my gut.

I curl my arms around his shoulders and imagine if there weren’t layers of clothes between us. We sway to the saxophone music, my head tucked where his neck meets his shoulder. I close my eyes, but I can’t feel or sense if he has an increased heartbeat like I do. Is he not as stirred as I am? Is his chest not enflamed like mine? Or am I just drunk?

It has to be the alcohol and the fact that I haven’t had sex in over a month. All I want to do right now is snake my hands through Wesley’s hair and feel his lips on mine. I ache to know what he tastes like. The night is warm, but shivers cover me from head to toe. I bet he fucks like a god. He’s a man of few words; I doubt he holds back in bed.

My hand clenches his shirt when his fingers graze up my spine. I release the fabric and subtly smooth it.

Shit. Fuck. Damn.

He definitely noticed. I don’t expect his grip on my waist to strengthen and our swaying to the classic music to increase. He’s teasing me. If I wasn’t enjoying it so much, I’d be surprised he has it in him. I didn’t think he would care to do anything. As he caresses my bare back—only fueling my wish for him to slam me against the wall and kiss me—I slide my fingers through the hair at the base of his neck. His shoulder twitches ever so slightly and I suppress a smirk.

We dance through teasing one another until my body is so tight with lust I can’t think straight. When a lone pedestrian walks by, Wesley pulls away and I stumble.

“How do you feel?” he asks, steadying me. “You had a lot to drink.”

I lower my head, my hair a curtain around me as I pinch the bridge of my nose. Of course. Have I lost my mind? I’m drunk. He’s my bodyguard. I need to snap out of it because there’s no way that wasn’t in my head.

“I’m fine.” I square my shoulders and lift my gaze for any type of distraction. With a quick scan around, I notice an alleyway to the left. Stairs lead upward with a statue in the center of it. I narrow my gaze on it. A woman. “What is that?”

The musician still plays his saxophone. While I usually tip street performers, I walk up the uneven steps toward the woman, my stomach stirring in unease. The plaque reads Queen Ophelia. Rusty lamps reflect an orange glow on my mother’s stone face. A blank expression—frozen in time.

I wish the sculptor had given her more emotion. This is the closest I’ve been to her since she died. Real life. 3D. I take her hand in mine, brushing my fingers over the cold stone. What did it really feel like? Soft or callous? Did she always have a fresh manicure, or did she habitually bite her nails the way I used to?

Both fresh and decaying roses scatter around the statue and there isn’t a spec of dirt in sight. A few pedestrians trot down the steps that curve around her. They have no idea I’m her daughter. I constantly ask myself if the public would hate me, and the pressure is almost enough for me to decline the crown entirely.

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