Roadside Attractions

Twenty-Seven

VANCOUVER, BC

The Horseshoe Bay ferry is surprisingly full, and it’s a wonder we were able to get on board with Wyatt’s Toyota before all the spots filled up. We’re not far into our journey before he gets restless, wandering outside onto the deck and beckoning me to join him.

It’s a gorgeous day. The sun is out, glistening off the Strait of Georgia, making it sparkle as we glide between the mountains. The wind is strong out here, and I immediately have to spend a considerable amount of time pushing my hair out of my face, but Wyatt pays no mind, beaming like a child on Christmas morning at the scenery. He leans against the railing, looking out at the open water as the ferry cuts through it.

I sidle next to him, wanting to soak up some of his joy, hoping it can transfer to me through the process of osmosis. The second I approach him, he holds his arm out in invitation. I accept it with a smile, stepping into his arms and leaning against his chest. Normally, I’m not one for PDA, but considering we’re the only ones on this part of the deck, I'll allow it .

Wyatt wraps his arms around me, then ducks his head to place his lips on the side of my neck. The action sends shivers down my spine, causing my mind to wander to last night, from our first feverish kiss to everything that came after.

As much as we would’ve liked to stay in this morning and take things slow, we were both very aware that our time is running out. There are only a couple of days until I need to head back to Toronto if I want to make it back to work on Monday, so finding Roman as soon as possible is a necessity.

We spent the morning in the hotel lobby on a computer, putting our plan together. When we’re actually on the same side of an issue, Wyatt and I make a surprisingly good team. It didn’t take long before we’d started compiling our dossier of evidence, grabbing all of the original poems I could find and cross-referencing them with Roman’s plagiarized mockeries. He’d posted most of them online and saved them in an Instagram highlight, a brazen display of stupidity.

I’ve always had a love for academic research, so, unsurprisingly, writing a goddamned dissertation about how my ex-boyfriend is a lying piece of shit brought me an immense amount of joy.

The document is locked and loaded in an email draft to Blue Sky , along with the authors we could find contact information for, but Wyatt and I agreed that we should wait to send it. We’re not trying to catch a criminal case here, so we won’t be threatening Roman with the email, but it depends how charitable we’re feeling after we find him. If all goes well, we’ll notify the authors privately, and if it doesn’t. . . Blue Sky will lose out on a feature, and Roman will be stripped of his opportunity without even knowing it was us.

I hope that this final act will mean I can put this all to bed for good. Because once this is over, I’m wiping my hands of Roman. He’ll be dead to me from that point on.

Our drive from Cultus Lake to Vancouver only took a couple of hours, and I’d felt a sharp pang of longing as the hotel retreated in my rearview mirror. I think there will always be a piece of my heart there, lingering in the scent after the rain and in the shadows of the parkade. Days from now, all of this will feel so surreal, miles away, and I’ll have to suppress the urge to retrace our steps, to stand in the spot where we took shelter from the downpour, to fall back against the mattress and breathe in the memory of Wyatt’s hands all over me.

I won’t, however, miss the engraved pendant necklace that’s hopefully made its way into a dumpster by now.

As the past two weeks flash through my mind, anxiety twists in my belly, but there’s something else, too. Excitement. Anticipation. Staring out at the blue expanse before me, I feel my throat constrict with unease. We’re mere hours away from reaching Tofino, and it’s impossible to wrap my head around. It’s the culmination of our journey, and I still have no idea what will come after.

We’re silent as we take in the view, basking in the glow of the sun. I try to push aside my worry, but I’m vibrating under my skin. I don’t think I’ll be able to relax until this is all over.

“Stella,” Wyatt says firmly, beckoning me from my reverie. My nervous energy must be palpable. “I don’t think you understand that I’m on cloud fucking nine right now.” I twist around again to see his face, taking a step back. He releases me, but he doesn’t let me go far. I lean against the railing, his hands braced on either side of me. We’re so close that he’s the only thing I can see. “I feel like any moment now, a camera crew is going to jump out of the bushes and tell me this whole thing has been a social experiment, because this is too good to be true. You’re too good to be true.”

My lips quirk, stomach fluttering. “No camera crew in sight.”

“Thank God.” He tucks one of my wayward curls behind my ear. “Seriously, though. To be able to touch you like this. . .” he trails off, allowing his hand to wander, fingertips skating down my neck, over my collarbone, stopping at the neckline of my dress. My breath hitches. “Too good to be true.”

I stand on my tiptoes, bracing my hands on his shoulders to press my lips to his. He sighs into my mouth, then pulls away to rest his forehead against mine.

“I’m so glad I don’t have to pretend anymore,” he says gruffly. “Thank you for finally catching up.”

I make a face of embarrassment. “It did take me a while, didn’t it?”

He lifts a mischievous eyebrow. “For your mind, maybe. But I’m pretty sure your body was already there on day one.”

“Fuck off,” I say, swatting him playfully.

Wyatt’s mouth breaks out into a grin before he tuts in fake disappointment. “We’ve really got to work on your language if we ever want to see Edith again.”

?

We arrive in Nanaimo around midday and are promptly reunited with the Toyota. I watch the Vancouver Island scenery pass by as we glide through the city, sailboats docked at the marina, a sweep of cerulean extending into the distance. It’s breathtaking, but it’s not our final destination.

Roman’s spot on the map has been in Tofino for days now, so unless he’s onto us and he’s ditched his phone somewhere, it’s only a short matter of time before we find him. The only thing separating us is a three-hour car ride across the island. But before we left the ferry, we decided that we wouldn’t look for him until the morning. We want to enjoy this last night without any complications.

However, that doesn’t stop the unease growing in my belly like a noxious weed. To his credit, Wyatt is doing his best to go on as if this is normal, just another day on our road trip. The pop punk is back in full force, filtering through his open window, and he drums his fingers on the steering wheel in time to the beat. It’s a good way to cover his nerves.

When he catches me peering at him, he reaches over, settling a hand on my thigh, squeezing gently. It’s an innocent gesture, but I find myself balling my hands into fists to stop myself from guiding his fingers even further. I haven’t forgotten the way they felt last night. And my outfit would allow him easy access if that was his goal.

Wyatt’s words come back to me in a flash, thick with desire as he tugged on my dress: these are sadistic.

I may have chosen one on purpose today.

“I can hear you thinking,” he murmurs, keeping his eyes on the road, but allowing his fingers to nudge the skirt of my dress, as if he can truly read my mind. Swallowing, I adjust my position and allow the dress to shift until more skin is exposed. He takes the invitation, his thumb smoothing slow circles. “Feel free to share any of your indecent thoughts with me.”

I bite the inside of my cheek. Feeling bold, I mimic my actions from the previous night, close my fingers around his wrist, and bring his hand where I like it best. Victory surges through me when he makes contact with the lace of my underwear, and he lets out a sharp exhale.

“You really are a sadist. Are you trying to make me pull over?” he asks, voice rough.

I blink at him innocently, fighting a smile. “Why would you need to pull over?”

He meets my gaze, eyes aflame. “It’s not a secret how much I want you, Stella Jane,” he says, and heat pools in my core. “Don’t toy with me by starting something we can’t finish right now.”

Despite the fact that I suddenly feel like a horny, insatiable teenager, I don’t think going at it on the side of the road in broad daylight would be all that romantic. In one smooth gesture, I brush his hand away, smoothing out the skirt of my dress so it’s a little more appropriate.

“If you insist.”

Wyatt groans in anguish, clearly displeased that I’ve revoked his access. “Okay, well now I’m having second thoughts.”

He’s not wrong—I do take great pleasure in his suffering. “Be careful what you wish for,” I tease. He makes a disgruntled face, stubbornly reaching over to intertwine our fingers and resting them on the armrest between us. A swell of affection rises in my chest. “That works too,” I say, giving his hand a squeeze.

Without removing his eyes from the road, he brings our hands to his lips, kissing each of my knuckles like he did yesterday, and I’m sure he can feel my racing pulse against his wrist. A look of amusement takes hold of his features, making me wary.

“Did you know that you tried to kiss me the other night?” he asks, voice nonchalant .

I blink at him. “Uh, yes? We did a lot more than kiss.”

Wyatt shakes his head. “Not last night,” he says, still looking smug. “Though I’d be happy to revisit that later. I’m talking about Harvie Heights.”

My lips part, embarrassment already swirling in my stomach. I rack my brain, trying to sift through the foggy memories I have of my drunken stupor. Surely, I would remember if I did something like that . But even as I think the words, a blush creeps up from my collarbone. I was so gone that night; anything could’ve happened.

“Oh, no,” I say miserably.

Wyatt fixes me with a wicked grin. “Oh, yes.”

“Oh, god ,” I groan, placing my free hand over my face in an attempt to ward off the humiliation. Wyatt barks out a laugh, clearly a fellow sadist, but I like the sound so much that it makes me laugh too. “All right, lay it on me. What happened?”

“First, I’d like to know what made you feel the need to get so hammered,” he remarks curiously. “Didn’t seem like a Moore thing to do.”

“It wasn’t,” I admit, grimacing. Despite everything that’s happened in the past twenty-four hours, my mental state when we were at the cowboy cabin is not something I want to discuss. Thinking about it makes me want to paint my face with clown makeup. “I. . . I was trying to distract myself.”

“From?”

I heave out a sigh, gaze drawn to the winding road ahead of us. “From the fact that kissing Owen made me realize I wanted to kiss you instead.” I brace myself, trying to tamp down my need to lighten the mood with a joke. After a few moments of silence, I risk a peek in Wyatt’s direction, just in time to see his bewildered expression.

“Really?” he says, sounding genuinely taken aback. “Is that what that was?”

A blush sets my cheeks ablaze. “I was fighting for my life that night,” I snap. “I thought I didn’t stand a chance with you. It’s your fault for making me think you were head over heels for some mystery girl. ”

He laughs again, low and warm. “Darling, you’re the only one who ever stood a chance,” he tells me, and I feel my chest constrict, anger and embarrassment momentarily forgotten. “But it took me so long to tell you because I thought I didn’t stand a chance with you .”

A smile worms its way onto my face. “I think we might be a pair of idiots,” I say, and he grunts in agreement. I pause, my gaze lingering on his profile. “That’s the first time you’ve called me ‘darling’ for real.”

“What do you mean? I’ve meant it every time I’ve said it.” Then he hums thoughtfully. “I’ve been over here hating Owen’s guts, and it turns out he was the catalyst that made you realize how you felt about me. I’m tempted to turn this car around and go kiss him myself.”

I nearly choke on a laugh. “Honestly, he might be down,” I quip. “Regardless, you’re not about to kiss anybody else on my watch.”

Wyatt grins, pleased. “Fine by me.”

“So why didn’t you let me?” I ask. “Kiss you, I mean.”

His thumb strokes the back of my hand absentmindedly. “First of all, I knew there was no way you would’ve tried that if you were sober, so why would I let it happen when you were drunk? I don’t want you to have regrets about anything we do.” He meets my eyes, gaze softening. “Secondly, taking advantage of drunk girls isn’t exactly my style. I didn’t want you to kiss me unless you knew what you were doing, that you meant it. That it was real.”

I feel a rush of gratitude. He was patient, and a gentleman, even while he was feeling as desperate as I was to know whether or not what we were building was real, or imaginary.

Fighting a smile, I lean over in my seat, straining against the seatbelt to plant a soft kiss on his cheek, then murmur against his skin, “So you know it’s real.”