Page 30 of A Deal with the Devil

We leave for Universal—me, eager as a child; Hayes, tolerating me like a weary but amused parent. Once we’ve parked, I jump from the car and breathe deep. The smell of hot tar and sunscreen reminds me of childhood, back in the days when our family trip to Worlds of Fun was the highlight of the summer.

“I suppose you don’t do amusement parks in England,” I tell him, holding out my phone to an attendant, who scans our admission tickets. “A fun day out is probably a trip to Bath, or a day in the countryside playing with a hoop and stick.”

He exhales. “I get the feeling all your knowledge of my homeland comes from reading books about nineteenth century orphans.”

“Well, we’re about to get a big taste of your homeland in a minute,” I say, leading him through the park, my steps quickening. He’s so much taller that even when I break into a near-jog his stride remains leisurely.

“Tada!” I cry, arms wide as we walk beneath the faux-stone entry to Harry Potter World. “We’re here. Doesn’t it remind you of home?”

His teeth sink into his lip as he takes in the rides and shops. “Ah, yes, Ye Olde Butterbeer Kiosk. There was one on every corner growing up.”

I roll my eyes. “Fine. Don’t show your gratitude. And here I was about to selflessly convince you to buy us both a wand and golden snitch. Which would also remind you of home. I know how you Brits love wands and quidditch.”

Something like laughter bubbles in his throat. Possibly a stifled weary sigh. One of many today, I’m certain. “It’s like you were raised there, you know us so well.”

I make him buy me a butterbeer, which is terrible, and go into the wand shop, though I have just enough pride not to let him buy me a wand when he offers.

With our VIP passes, there is little waiting for rides. I figured a man who hasn’t stood in line for anything in years wasn’t going to handle a ninety-minute wait for Hagrid’s Motorbike Adventure. But as we are ushered past a long, winding queue of whining children and weary parents, I wince. “Are you feeling bad about this at all?” I ask, nodding toward their sad little faces.

His brow furrows. “Bad about making the wisest decision of my life and avoiding parenthood? No, not at the moment.”

We watch as a kid old enough to know better gets mad at his father and throws a tray of nachos on the ground. “I feel certain you’re missing out on something by not having children,” I reply, “though I can’t quite think what it is right now.”

“You do?” he asks, swallowing as his gaze flickers to me and away. “Want kids, that is.”

I shove my hands in my pockets. “I thought I did,” I admit. I was eight when Charlotte was born, old enough to treat her like a living doll for several years before she objected. Having kids and being an author—those were my two greatest dreams when I was younger.

He glances at me. “But…?”

“But I doubt I’m ever going to be in a relationship again,” I tell him.

“You’re twenty-five, and you’ve only been single a year. How can you possibly claim you’ll never meet someone?”

I frown at him as the turnstile unlocks to allow us onto the ride. “Because I knew Matt backward and forward, and there was never a sign he was so…different…from who I thought he was. I can’t imagine going through that all over again with someone I don’t know as well.”

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “I understand that better than you can imagine, but not all men are terrible.”

I step into the car, holding the lap bar while he slides in beside me. His thigh is glued to mine and his shoulders are taking up more than his fair share of the seat, but I can’t say I entirely mind the way we are pressed together. “I just don’t trust myself to know the good ones from the bad, and I doubt I ever will. You wouldn’t understand. You only want the bad ones.”

There’s no time for him to respond. The bar locks over our laps and then the roller coaster inches out of the station, climbing up a massive hill at a rickety pace. Fear and anticipation build in my stomach and I let myself lean against his side, just a bit, finding assurance in the solidity of him, though even those muscles of his won’t prevent us from certain death if this thing goes off the rails.

“You’re nervous?” he asks, grinning down at me.

I narrow my eyes. “Not in the least. I’m just trying to figure out how I can sacrifice you to save myself if this goes badly.”

We reach the hill and drop down what appears to be a ninety-degree angle. The lap bar is all that is keeping me in this seat as my intestines seem to lift into my throat and stay there. I’m terrified and thrilled and clinging to the bar while I attempt to press my face into his shoulder, all while we whip around corners at high speed and fly up another impossible hill. I stop screaming just long enough to hear him laughing—not the dry, sardonic chuckle he gives me occasionally, usually at my expense, but a true belly laugh. It makes me smile for half a second, until I start screaming again.

When we reach the ride’s end, coming to a shockingly sudden stop, I climb off on weak legs.

I’ve only been standing for a few seconds when the world turns black. “Whoa.” The blood rushes from my head, and I find a strong arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me tight.

“What’s the matter?” he asks.

My head falls to his chest as little black dots fill my vision, and even as I struggle to regain my balance, I notice how nice and firm he is, how good he smells—soap and skin and fabric softener, how reassuring his arm around me feels, as if nothing truly bad can happen when I’m standing against him like this.

“Just a dizzy spell,” I reply. “I think I need to eat.”

Slowly I regain my vision and step away from him. His eyes narrow. “You’re sure that’s all it is?” he demands. “Does that happen a lot?”