Page 18 of Ticket to You

Slumping down onto the couch cushions, I fight the urge to cover my face with my hands. Adam Abrams will not be getting the satisfaction of seeing me weak. I exhale slowly. “Seven days, four countries.”

“Plus one hell of a tour guide,” Adam says flatly.

“Ted Bundy was quite the tour guide too, taking those girls on his infamous canyon drives.”

Ignoring my quip, Adam checks his phone. “You won’t have time for jet lag over in Europe, so you should get your sleep in now.”

I nod, remembering my professionalism, and sit up straight, trying to set my jaw the same way Adam does.

“And remember, tomorrow morning we need to go shopping to get you outfitted in all the gear you’ll need,” Adam says, hesitating at the front door. “I’ll see you soon, Brooks.”

My name sounds different in his voice, taking on his trademark tension, the syllabus so tight they sound as though they’ll snap.

10

ADAM

REI is clearly notOphelia’s kind of store. I assumed as much, and the way she grimaces after one look at the window display confirms my suspicions immediately. Inside, there are three stories of shopping space with endless racks and shelves of gear. Already knowing the store by heart, I lead Ophelia directly to the women’s apparel.

I pull a few items at a time, Ophelia tries them on, and then we decide on them together. Every time Ophelia emerges from the dressing room, she’s a touch more defeated.

“I’ve never seen something so boxy. And why does everything come in these awful colors?” She pretends to gag at the reflection of herself in the polyester button-down. The shirt is terribly basic, but she somehow still looks good in it. She pulls at it a few times, trying to get it to lie right on her. “This teal is ‘Hey, we get it. Girls can wear blue, but notactualblue, or you might look too masculine.’ And the fuchsia is ‘You can be a girlandwear girl colorsandbe outdoorsy, but we will only let you do so if you wear the ugliest shade of pink.’”

“Not every company prioritizes form over function.”

Ophelia rolls her eyes. “Don’t be so pretentious. Despite what all of this looks like, it’s still fashion. And worldwide, activewear is nearly a five hundredbillion-dollar industry. Every fabric, every color, every cut was carefully chosen by a team of designers—they just didn’t make those decisions with me in mind, obviously.”

Gemma was right. Ophelia is smart; she knows her stuff.

I hand Ophelia a pair of padded cycling shorts and a jersey to pair with them, and she groans all the way into the dressing room. Meanwhile, I hunt for a helmet and pick the brightest one I can find. It’s a bright, radioactive green. My eyes actually hurt when I look at it. With no sign of Ophelia yet, I roam around aimlessly, looking for anything else to have her try on so I can prolong our time together. I really should focus on my own prep work, but she’s so unique, I’m itching to see what makes her tick.

Admittedly, Ophelia would have been fine in her basic workout clothes. Between my gear and what I can borrow from Eloise, we’d have her covered. But when she was at my apartment yesterday, I kept looking for an excuse to see her again before the trip so I could get a read on her.

After ten minutes, Ophelia still hasn’t left the dressing room, so I call into it. “How does it fit?”

“It’s horrid.”

“Let me see.”

“Hell. No.”

“Come on, Brooks.” I tap my knuckle against the dressing room door repeatedly until she finally swings it open.

Ophelia turns to the side, assessing her profile in the mirror. “What is up with my ass in these? The padding is making them all distorted and lumpy. Ugh, and the top isn’t much better.” She yanks at the high neck of the skin-tight cycling jersey as if she’s fighting for oxygen. Bright colors and abstract shapes cover the fabric, making it a true eyesore.

“You’re missing the pièce de résistance.” I place the helmet on her head. “There,” I whisper.

My hands graze the sides of Ophelia’s jaw as I clip the strap below her chin. Something in me begs me to keep my hands there, but Ophelia flinches at my touch. I take a wide step, frustrated by my racing pulse.

Calm down, I beg myself.

I hold up a pair of sunglasses I found near the helmets. They’re composed of a wide band of blue reflective glass, like something a villain would wear in an ’80s movie. Nobody looks good in these, and it might do me well to see Ophelia looking ridiculous.

“These aren’t a necessity, but I think it pulls the look together.” I slide the glasses over Ophelia’s nose.

Ophelia takes a deep breath before turning to the mirror slowly. She scoffs, purses her lips, and frames her face with her hands in a dramatic modelesque pose. She’s poking fun at herself, but, sure enough, she looks as cute as ever.

Damn.

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