Page 52 of Ticket to You

Adam uses both of his hands to push my hair away from his face, planting them on either side of my neck. For a while, he doesn’t speak. He just stares at me, eyes moving along each little centimeter of my face as if to memorize it. When he reaches the tip of my chin, his gaze flicks up, connecting with mine.

“God, you’re beautiful,” Adam says in an exhale. Then, without warning, he drops to the ground and unzips the gear bag, pulling his film camera out.

“Oh, no.” I cover my face with my hands, my face somehow flushing even hotter. “I take pictures; I don’t pose for them.”

“Don’t pose then.” Adam grabs my hands in his and kisses both of them before setting them at my side and backing away slowly. I fold my arms over my chest and try to hide my smile with a glare. Adam snaps a picture. “That’s exactly how I want to remember you: frustrated with me for some reason or another.” I join in on Adam’s laughter, my adrenaline bubbling over, and he takes another picture. Then another as he steps closer, then again, closer still. The last picture is so close I’m sure that my smile was the only thing in frame.

“Maybe we’re drunk,” I whisper, doubt creeping back in now that the buzzing has softened.

“I’m not drunk. Are you drunk?” Adam drops his camera, letting the strap catch it. His eyes grow wide. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…I didn’t see you drinking very much.”

I close the gap between us. “I’m not drunk either. I’m just looking for some kind of explanation.”

“How’s this for an explanation?” Adam asks, trailing his fingers up and down my arms slowly. “You drive me crazy. Wholly, wonderfully crazy. And I can’t get enough of it.”

I knot my fingers with his. “The feeling is mutual.”

“So what now? Do you want to…” Again, Adam waits for me to finish the sentence.

“Go back to the hotel. But let’s not rush anything tonight. We don’t know what’s going to happen after this trip, and I don’t want either of us to regret something we do in the heat of the moment.” And if we don’t sleep together on the trip, Hoffman’s can’t betooupset with us, right?

But even as Adam nods in agreement, grabbing our bags and leading me toward the garden’s exit, I know that “slow” may not be possible. The trip is nearly over.

And what comes next?

Maybe that question is the real reason I won’t sleep with Adam tonight, no matter how much I desperatelywantto.

We have chemistry. We have passion. But we’re two entirely different people with vastly different interests. Could we ever work outside of our little bubble, back in the real world? When he’ll be off working on his new magazine, and I’ll be atAtelier Today, too scared to take a risk by leaving? I push the questions from my mind, focusing only on the feeling of Adam’s hand in mine.

The entrance to the garden is guarded by two statues of nearly nude men carved from marble. They’re muscular and flawless and elegant.

And they’re nothing compared to Adam.

Back in our hotel room, I rinse off in the cold shower—something that has been a recurring theme of this trip. Adam follows suit, kissing me as he goes into the bathroom and I go out. He does it so casually, so naturally. If someone were to see us, with our synchronous and sweet, stolen touches, they might think that we’ve been together long. But in reality, I have the feet-kicking, butterfly-twirling, giddy smile fit for a teenager who’s never been kissed before.

While Adam is showering, I’m hit with the sinking feeling that the magic of the gardens might be gone. That I’ll see him again and find something wrong with him, or vice versa. Maybe a month from now, maybe when we’re back in the States, or maybe even tonight.

But when Adam climbs into bed and traces his fingers in light circles across my hip, he eases my qualms. He tucks my back against his chest, and I melt against him happily.

28

ADAM

The first thingI see in the morning is Ophelia’s smile, and,God, it’s a beautiful sight. I would stay in this bed forever with her if not for our early flight to Manchester we need to be on. But even as we rush to pack and get ready for it, we can’t help but sneak kisses and touches whenever possible.

Being with Ophelia in this way feels like my chest has expanded and I can finally breathe, at least until she gives me that look of hers that spikes my pulse. Even simple movements, like when she reaches out for my hand and grazes her fingers along the top of it, somehow feel more intimate than any sex I’ve had.

Almost as soon as we land in the UK, we will set off to go mountain biking with a paraplegic rider and his wife. I’ve hardly done any prep for the interview, but I can’t seem to regret that decision, not when I’m looking at Ophelia, fresh-faced and smiling.

Who even am I?

I’ve never been one to procrastinate work. Eloise often tells me how pathetic it is that my only long-term relationship has been with my trusted suitcase of ten years. I don’t date. I don’t swoon. Or at least, I didn’t use to.

On the plane, Ophelia and I can hardly keep our hands off each other. We’re in constant contact, whether it's my hand along her thigh or her fingers curling around my hair. I trace her lips with my thumb and kiss the inside of her wrist, breathing in her vanilla perfume.

It’s probably good we’re on this flight, surrounded by people, because I think any more time spent in a hotel room or, hell, even alone in a car, would have resulted in us going back on our “taking things slow” decision. I’ve skied out of helicopters, free-climbed cliff faces, and dived with sharks. But keeping myself away from Ophelia sounds far more challenging than any of that.

As our plane begins its descent into England, Ophelia’s expression tenses. “What are you thinking?” I ask her, eager to get her mind off her nerves.

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