Page 16 of The Sweet Spot

But then I did find her. And now that we’re here, after having spent the past few hours together, I’m wondering what my end game is. Like I told Wren, I probably won’t be coming back down here for a while.

I guess I’m just curious to see where this goes. There’s something about her that keeps me interested, and it’s not just the way she looks, although I like that a lot, too.

“How long’ve you been working here?” I ask, once the silence between us has stretched a little too long. Maybe I’m a little nervous, too.

She looks up at me. “Every summer since I was fifteen.”

“A real Santa Cruz girl, huh?”

She wrinkles her nose. “I guess. It’s kind of a tourist trap.”

“What’s your favorite ride?”

“This one.” Color rises in her cheeks.

I pause, grinning at that. “Favorite thing to eat?”

“Here? The taco stand over by the bumper cars.” She tilts her head. “And I have a thing for cotton candy. My grandma and I used to eat it on this ride all the time.”

“Used to?” I echo, hoping it’s not what it sounds like.

“Yeah, way back when she actually left the house.” She huffs softly. “Gramma Kate’s still around; she’s just old.”

“My stepfather likes to say he’d rather be old than dead.”

“Exactly! We should be so lucky.” Wren shrugs, picking at a loose string on her shorts. “Anyway, Gramma Kate’s still got it—she kicks my ass whenever we play gin rummy.”

“She sounds like my vovó Ana. She’ll kill you before she’ll let you win at a game of buraco.”

“Vovó?” She cocks her head. “Is that your grandma?”

I nod, tapping her thigh with my fingertip. “And buraco’s a card game, like rummy.”

Her eyes twinkle. “I see.”

“What about your parents?” I ask.

She averts her eyes then, scanning the lit-up park laid out before us. “They split when I was pretty young.”

Maybe it’s a sensitive topic. It is for a lot of people. “Mine, too.” A lock ofher hair blows free, and we reach for it at the same time. She lets me tuck it behind her ear as her cheeks go pink, and I know I’m going to kiss her. “I take it you grew up here, then?”

“Yeah, my whole life. I’ve been to the Bay plenty, though. Walnut Creek’s pretty.”

“It’s all right. My mother and stepfather still live there with my little brother. We came to the boardwalk all the time when I was a kid, though.” I peek down at the glittering scenario below, which is still just as crowded as it was at midday. “Lots of memories here.”

“So many memories.” She sighs. “Your friend said I was probably sick of this place, and maybe I should be, but I’m not.”

“Don’t listen to Logan. He’s a grump.”

She waves off my words, shaking her head. “I like that this place doesn’t change. There’s something safe and nostalgic about it, a happy place you can dip in or out of whenever you want.”

I gaze into her eyes, imagining the boardwalk the very way she’s describing. It’s a romantic notion, for sure, and an appealing one.

But then she snorts, rolling her eyes. “Or maybe I’m full of shit. To be completely honest, I have a love/hate relationship with this place. I mean, I go to bed at night with the sounds of clanging and creaking and screaming and all of this”—she gestures to the scene around us—“banging around my head. So, there’s that.”

“No, I get you. The boardwalk’s great but visiting is different than working here. Every job has its pros and cons,” I say. “I worked at my stepfather’s cushy real estate office a couple summers ago and thatreallysucked ass.”

“Why?”

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