Page 80 of The Cuddle Clause
“Better than his brunches,” I said, falling into step beside him. And just like that, we were off to our next ridiculous adventure, hand in hand.
By the time we rolled into Ghirardelli Square, night had fully set in, but the place was as alive as ever. The glow of the old factory sign cast warm light across the brickwork, the square buzzing with tourists clutching ice cream cones, couples wandering arm in arm, families corralling kids hopped up on sugar. The scent of chocolate filled the air—thick and sweet. It wrapped around a person and made you forget every single decision that had led you here.
Not that I was complaining.
Roman parked at the curb and cut the engine. The second the door shut behind me, the richness of it hit, like stepping into a dream where calories didn’t count and decisions like this didn’t spiral into an existential crisis about self-control.
Roman smirked as we walked up the steps, his hand brushing the small of my back.
“Temple of chocolate,” he said, glancing around at the crowds. “Lucien’s really outdone himself.”
The shop was lit with that soft, golden glow that made everything feel cozy even as people were lined up three deep at the counter. Roman grabbed my hand and tugged me toward the ordering line. “What’s the move, killer? Sundae for two? Or are we going full sugar-coma?”
“Let’s go full sugar-coma,” I said. The night was already surreal, so why the hell not?
When it was our turn, Roman ordered the biggest sundae on the menu without hesitation. The bowl was so massive it could have doubled as a birdbath.
We carried it out to the steps and claimed a spot near the fountain. A musician nearby strummed a guitar, singing something low and soulful. The night air was crisp but not cold, carrying the scent of the Bay, of melted chocolate, of sea breeze and city grit. I curled my legs beneath me as Roman settled close, his thigh brushing mine as he handed me a spoon.
As we dug in, I snapped a selfie. We stole bites from each other’s side of the bowl like we weren’t both grown adults who could have just ordered two. But this was better. This wasours. I stole a spoonful of fudge from his side, grinning as he mock-glared at me over the rim of his own spoon.
“Thief,” he said.
“Cry about it,” I shot back, but the words lacked heat, softened by the way my heart was beating, by the way his smile reached his eyes.
Somewhere in the middle of the sundae, when I was starting to feel the first edge of sugar-induced regret, Roman’s eyes brightened with mischief, and he swiped a smudge of chocolate from his thumb across the tip of my nose.
I grabbed a napkin, laughing despite myself. “You’re an absolute menace.”
He leaned back just enough to be out of napkin reach, grinning like he’d won the lottery. “Admit it. I make scavenger hunts fun.”
“I’ll admit you’re lucky I didn’t bring a water gun.”
He raised a brow, smirk deepening. “Next round.”
And there, on the steps of a tourist-packed chocolate shop, in the middle of a ridiculous competition we hadn’t asked for, I felt that dangerous flutter in my chest again. The one that whispered this wasn’t just fun. That this wasn’t just a game. This was us, and it was starting to feel terrifyingly real.
The next clue from Lucien’s app arrived just as we scraped the sundae bowl clean. The phone chimed with its ridiculous fanfare, the script glowing on the screen like Lucien had personally enchanted it to ensure no one could ignore it:Seal your fate with a sea-born witness.
I groaned, stretching my legs out in front of me. “I swear, if Lucien tries to make us kiss a fish for points, I’m out.”
Roman laughed, standing and offering me his hand. I took it, letting him pull me to my feet. “Come on, sunshine bean. Let’s go find some sea-born witnesses.”
We made the short drive to Fisherman’s Wharf, the familiar clamor of the place greeting us even before we got out of the car. The scent of saltwater mingled with fried food and street vendor spices, the calls of vendors pitching their wares blending with the bark of sea lions from the docks.
We found the cluster of sea lions sprawled across the wooden floats like it was their domain and we humans were intruders. The night had drawn a smaller crowd—tourists snapping pictures, couples leaning against railings, the city lights throwing silver ripples across the dark water.
Roman pulled me closer to the edge, his hand finding mine again like it had every right to be there. Like we weren’t still pretending. Like this wasn’t all part of some elaborate show.
“There they are,” he said, nodding toward the loudest of the lot. “Majestic beasts in their natural habitat. Observe as they laze, unbothered, the true kings of the Wharf.”
Snorting, I pulled out my phone. “Stop. I can’t take a picture if you’re making me laugh.”
He straightened a little, dropping into his best mock-documentary narrator tone. “Watch as the female attempts to capture photographic evidence of the wild sea lion, whose only predator is?—”
One of the sea lions lunged closer, barking loud enough to make me jump out of my skin. Instinct had me grabbing Roman’s hand, my fingers tightening around his.
He didn’t flinch. Just laced our fingers together, warm and steady, as he tugged me back a step. “Easy,” he said, his thumb brushing mine, the words more for me than for the sea lion. “They’re just trying to impress you.”
