Page 71 of Roaming Holiday

But when I’m done explaining the proposal, he hesitates, shrugs, and says, “I don’t know.”

I smack his arm, surprising him more than hurting him.

“Ay—what was that for?”

“After all that, you tell me I don’t know?” I wail. “Do better.”

“It is a strong plan.” He lets his Maldanian accent shine when he sharpens the t. I’d be annoyed with that answer if he didn’t sound so damn cute.

“But is it good enough?”

“I—” Wesley struggles to find the words. “I’m not part of politics. I’ve never contributed to the country in that way.”

A cryptic answer, as always. I poke his arm. “Do you want a queen?”

“What I want doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me,” I say firmly. “Answer the question: what would you think if I became the queen?”

The car slows as we approach the toll booth line. He shakes his head. “I can’t answer that.”

“You can.”

“I can’t.”

“You can.”

“I can’t.”

“You can.” When he doesn’t reply, I turn to my next method by leaning closer. “Please?”

He sees right through my attempt, his shoulders falling. “Don’t?—”

I tilt my head and bat my eyes. “Pretty please?”

“Don’t do this to me.” He looks at me, his expression almost desperate, which oddly arouses me.

“Pleeeeeease answer the question, Wesley.”

He doesn’t break eye contact as he shifts the gear between us. “You are killing me, woman.”

The car pulls up to the booth and I smirk. “Isn’t that what I’m for?”

After he pays the toll, I don’t press the subject any further. There’s still so little I truly know about him. He was in the army and alludes to supposedly frightening past mistakes. The drive continues in silence, and I keep wondering what his life was like before we met. I’m no doctor, but I can tell the burn scar on his hand isn’t old. Most of his visible scars are on his wrists and hands. The one on his inner arm can be hidden easily with a sleeve.

Okay, maybe I look at him too much.

I flinch back to reality when Wesley speaks. “Were you truly upset… when I was speaking to that woman in the bakery?”

My cheeks warm. Damn. I thought we moved past this. I swallow the nerves lodging in my throat. “I… I asked you to join us—when we were on the boat and you said no. But you found some blonde baker more interesting.” I squeeze my eyes shut, shaking my head at how pathetic I sound. “It’s stupid, all right? Just ignore it. I did. It was right after the attack and I was… I don’t know.”

He doesn’t answer at first, and I want to disappear more with each second he lets pass.

“I didn’t want to embarrass you,” he admits, and I stare at him, shocked. “I have made an ass of myself many times this summer because I don’t remember the uh—how to socialize. And I can practice with strangers. Like blonde bakers I could not care less about.”

Well, that makes me feel shitty. I can’t imagine what he’s gone through where he forgot how to talk to people.

“Why didn’t you just tell me that?”

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