Page 78 of Faking It
“I thought you were the morning person,” he says with a chuckle.
“Why do you sound so cheerful? What is this sorcery?”
“C’mon. I want to take you somewhere.”
“Right now?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“A coffee shop?” I ask, hoping that at this ungodly hour, he’ll at least grant me that.
Another chuckle in that low morning gravel of his that scrapes up all kinds of feelings of coupledom that I’m not supposed to feel.
“Right now.” A hand slides gently down my back. “No make-up. No hair. And if you move quick enough, I can guarantee you some coffee.”
When I push myself up and turn to face him, he looks rumpled and sleepy like I do . . . and so very sexy. As much as I love the man in his dress shirts and vests and ties, when he’s like this—V-neck T-shirt, jeans, hair a mess—he’s irresistible. The power CEO reduced to college frat boy.
“C’mon, we’re going to miss it.” His words are emphasized by a pat on my ass.
I do what he says, but I grumble the whole time that I do. When he hands me a cup of coffee. When the chilled morning air hits me as I step out of the coach. When he tells me we have to hike up a mountainside in the predawn morning with the sky just turning blue. When he checks his watch every few minutes to make sure we’re wherever we need to be in time.
“Do you mind telling me where we are going or what we are doing?” I ask from where we’re sitting, a patch of grass on the side of a slope.
“You just need to wait and see.”
“Famous last words,” I huff at the cryptic message but secretly like this quiet, unassuming side to him. “If we’re here to watch the sunrise, you could just say that and I’d be fine with it.”
He doesn’t respond, just keeps his eyes peering straight ahead, when a huge smile lights up his face. “Look.”
When I turn to face the east, I’m met with the slow rise of the sun over the ridge beyond. The sky is full of pinks and oranges. The clouds in the distance a
re an array of colors. But before I can even put words together, something else begins to peek over the edge of the hills and join the sun. Huge globes of color.
“Wow!” I don’t even realize I say it as the sky suddenly fills with one hot air balloon after another. They ascend quickly and quietly. Their canopies—stripes and chevrons and polka dots and solids—brightening up the sky with their color and presence.
“Pretty cool, huh?” Zane murmurs beside me.
“Where did you—”
“Shhh.” He murmurs without looking my way and points to the scene out of a postcard before us.
“Have you ever been up in one?”
“No.”
“Have you—”
“Shhh. Just enjoy it.”
And so we sit in the early morning without coffee cold now and watch the sky come alive. But there’s something about the man beside me who pulls my attention just as equally.
I’m usually good at reading a person, knowing who they are after just one meeting . . . and yet Zane is continually proving to me that I just might be wrong. This guy—the one who talks to his dog via webcam and wakes me up to surprise me with this—is nothing like the man I first met when he mistook me for his dog walker.
And I think that realization might be detrimental to my heart.
“I’m sorry I was an asshole yesterday.” His words are soft and his tone is even as he leans back on his hands behind him, but keeps his eyes straight ahead.
“You were scared.”
