Page 76 of The One Month Boyfriend (Wildwood Society)

I feel myself smile, and I don’t know if it’s at his words or the way he’s still looking at me.

“It is if you’re the one begging,” I say, softly.

“I can’t believe I survived crossing you, once upon a time.”

“You’re not out of the woods just yet.”

He drops his head for a moment, and when he looks back at me he’s smiling, one curl of hair across his forehead.

“Have mercy on me, Kat,” he says, and between the rakish smile and the lock of hair and the tiny friction of my ankle against his and the lights in his eyes like ships on a midnight sea, I have no idea what to do.

So I freeze.

Then I roll my eyes. I push up my glasses and look away, over the side of the car, and tug at the end of my braid over one shoulder and drum my fingers on the arm rest and snort like that’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.

“Quit it,” I say. “We’ll be free of each other in a couple weeks and I promise not to tear your head off before that.”

It’s sharp and bitchy and I hate it as soon as I say it, but I’m flailing and I don’t know what else to do. Silas is warm and friendly and kisses me with tongue and sometimes looks at me in a way I find mildly terrifying, but I also know that this is explicitly fake. That there must be a waiting list and every entry on it more appealing than me. That he’s here at all because we can’t stand the same person.

And he let me wash his hair that night. And I woke up with his head in my lap.

“Sorry,” I say after a long moment, still not looking at him. “I meant—you know. I won’t use you as furniture.”

I finally look back at him, and the rakish grin is still there. Does it ever go away?

“What if I ask real nice?”

“You’re a little mouthy for a footstool.”

“Was that a compliment, Kat?”

And I’m smiling back, despite myself.

“Was it?”

“I think it may have been,” he says, and then he stands and swings himself around the pole in the middle of the car and sits next to me before I’m even finished gasping.

“There, now it’s romantic,” he says, and puts his arm around me.

“Don’t stand up!” I hiss, several seconds too late.

He ignores me to stretch his neck, looking out at the night sky as the Ferris wheel starts rotating, heavy and slow.

“All right,” he says, and points past me. “That over there is Orion.”

I follow his gaze, but I don’t see Orion.

“Are you sure?”

“Right next to it is the big dipper,” he goes on, pressing into my side. I can feel him breathing and I don’t know what to do with my hands. “And then we’ve got the small dipper, and the seven sisters, and… I dunno, pick a zodiac sign. How about Gemini?”

None of those things are true, but his voice is low and rumbly and the plastic bench seat is slippery and the car is rocking again as the wheel moves, pushing me back into him.

“Are you making this up?” I ask, looking at the sky like my life depends on it. Otherwise I’ll look at him.

“Course not,” he says smoothly. “Keep snuggling, make it look good. And then over here, in this part of the sky, we’ve got Ursa Major and Capricorn Minor.”

“That’s not what either of those things are,” I tell him, my voice perfectly light and casual. He leans forward and now his chest is against my back, the rumble of his voice shivering through me.