Page 46 of The Amazing Date

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We delayed as long as physically possible, almost forty minutes, only moving forward when Trey and Brooke arrived. We wanted to stay ahead of them. Once over the mountain, the rappelling went smoothly. Rylee, to no one’s surprise, had studied rappelling at a local rock-climbing gym in New York. If the Boy Scouts’ motto is always be prepared, hers should be overprepare and outperform.

The wildflower fields are enormous. Easily the size of three football fields. The sweet scent of lilacs mixes with the earthy notes of fireweed, wildflowers, and asters. While our noses adjust, our eyes are assaulted with an endless sea of vibrant yellows, reds, violet, and oranges. A pang pulls on my heart as I imagine Gabby’s reaction to seeing this for the first time. She loves the gardens in Puerto Rico, and this is like the gardens on steroids. I’ve promised I’d sketch her in the gardens and silently add these wildflower fields to that list. Just the thought of her, hair blowing in the breeze, pensive stare out to the horizon with the flowers in the background, has me itching to sketch. My eyes scan the fields seeking the race flowers, yet my mind continues to float elsewhere.

It’s like a switch had been flicked. All the hesitation, all the worries and doubt that had weighed me down, preventing me from sketching people, appear to have been lifted all at once. I twist to take in the reason for this feeling. Rylee.

Rylee approaches, a burnt-orange-and-white wildflower sticking in her sandy-brown hair. She has no idea how freaking beautiful she is, nor that her presence has forced me out of my funk. She holds up four fingers, her other hand holding the four clues discovered thus far.

“I have five,” I state. “We need three more.”

We both turn at the sound of the yelp in the distance. Ronnie and Thelma are high-fiving each other, holding up their bouquet. They begin to race, or rather walk briskly because they don’t run, toward the next challenge area. We’ve made up time with them, and with a little luck, we should be no more than fifteen minutes behind them.

“This way.” Rylee turns toward the south field, an area we have yet to see any team enter. I pace six feet to her right, lining up with a row of wildflowers. It’s a system she recommended, much like a rescue team looking for a lost child, a grid search. We take synchronized steps, pausing, looking left, then right, and then ahead. Step and repeat. We appear to be the only team using such a systematic approach.

The other teams have all raced around the fields blindly, hoping to trip across the hidden clues. They’ve lucked into a few but for the most part have only found fatigue and frustration.

“Two more,” Rylee chimes in with happiness in her voice. I know she’s reveling in besting the blondes finally. I feel it too but am also enjoying this moment with her. This race has been stressful and exhausting, but working together out in the fields feels special. It’s like we are the only ones on the entire mountain, and I could stay like this all day.

We have history, not all of it bad. We’re both adults now, so there shouldn’t be anything preventing us from becoming an us. Is that what she wants? We haven’t discussed a future; we’ve barely discussed today. Even if we continue what we started yesterday, what does it mean? Is it the hormones, adrenaline, and thrill of the race speaking, or something else? What will it all mean a week from now? I feel the sense of the approaching crossroads.

Four years ago, I had just graduated college and landed in PR with a plan: spend a week connecting with family before heading off to Portugal for a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I had fought for and won a six-month assignment with my professor to assist him on an artist’s retreat. Alumni and up-and-coming artists from my professor’s network all over the world, together to talk, live, and breathe art. My plan was to soak up everything, expand my network, and contact art galleries across western Europe.

Then Rylee happened.

Within five days, she had consumed me. She was an impulsive, reckless, magnificent woman who had me doing things I never thought possible. I felt invincible. I wasn’t.

By the end of the week, my world lay in ruins, my assignment canceled, my hand in a cast.

That last day on the island, all Rylee saw from me was the anger, my hurt, the part of me I wanted her to see. It made it easy to keep her away from me. It made it easy to leave her.

“This is nice,” her whisper-thin voice floats on the warm breeze.

Her words snap me back to the present. A sense of déjà vu sweeps over me. I tell myself to relax. This is the new Rylee. She’s not as impulsive; she’s not reckless. If anything, she overcorrected, embracing checklists and planning as if it’s a life preserver in an untamable ocean. Will this time be different? It has to be.

I nod, knowing she’s not looking in my direction. “As challenges go, this one isn’t so bad. A slow stroll with you through stunning fields of fresh flowers? Sign me up.”

She plucks a recently bloomed purple-and-gold aster flower by her foot and slips it between her teeth. I don’t need a camera to capture this moment, this image uploaded in my head along with the dozens of others I’ve stored of her. Images of her on the beaches on la isla, dancing at the pier, laughing with Gabby while walking the streets of Ponce, and dozens of others. She’s always been the forbidden treat just out of my reach, one I craved her for so long. And finally, after so much time, there appears to be a path to turning this into a reality.

“One more,” she says, bending to retrieve another race-colored flower, a plastic tag with the race logo wrapped around the stem. Her voice fills with hesitancy. I wonder if she is feeling what I am. Neither one of us wants this segment of the race to end.

“When the race is over, I’ll replace these fake flowers with a dozen real ones. Which ones are your favorite?” I’m not sure how I let this thought escape my lips. Her feet halt, her shoulders twisting in my direction.

“I’ve never taken you for the get-a-girl-flowers type. Are you changing on me?”

I want to say she’s the one who’s changed. She’s become a woman, and I’ve always known how to treat a woman. Especially one I’ve been craving for years. “Not that big a deal. I’m taking it out of your winnings.” I deflect to take away the seriousness of the conversation. We still need to complete this leg of the race. I stride forward, forcing her to move again.

She’s pushed the aster flower previously between her teeth into her hair to join the others. The tight array of different flowers make her look like a French girl in the country. She glances in my direction, catching me ogling her. Her lips separate, her tongue peeking out, the corners of her lips ticking up. “Don’t move.”

I freeze in place, enamored with her gaze. She steps toward me, taking slow, purposeful strides. The tips of her sneakers meet mine, yet her gaze remains on me. This close, I notice the sheen of sweat on her forehead. “Don’t move,” she repeats, this time even softer. The lust-filled whisper takes my mind to places it shouldn’t. She bends down, her gaze remaining locked on me. Her knees hit the soft grass, and she reaches a hand between my legs. Her head is a mere two inches from my crotch, yet her eyes remain locked on mine.

I take a deep inhale and hold my breath. She reaches forward with her hand between my legs, her movement forcing her head even closer to me. “And what do I get to celebrate finding the last flower.”

She pulls her hand back, holding the final race flower. She doesn’t rise but merely bites her lower lip, her eyes daring me to make the next move. I’ve seen this seductive side of her before. I won’t be intimated.

“I can think of a dozen things you can do. Some of them right from your current position.”

Her legs straighten as she takes a step back. “First, we have a race to win.”

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