“I should squirt you,” she says, but she’s smiling so big she can’t get it out without a laugh.
“Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Oh, like yesterday was my fault?”
I want to kiss her.
I want to lean across this table and kiss her until neither one of us can breathe, and then I want to kiss her more.
Because she’s strong. So fucking strong. She’s what I want to be. What I try to be.
Unstoppable. Undaunted by a challenge. Fearless.
“All your fault,” I say. “You set me up.”
She’s leaning in like she feels it too. Like she would kiss me too.
She’s still pointing the ketchup bottle at me, but it’s Ellie, so naturally.
“You are so full of baloney.”
She’s a Siren, beckoning me with her wide smile and daring insults. She’s bold and driven and fun.
Fuck, I miss fun.
“You like baloney,” I remind her.
She wrinkles her nose.
“You did. When we were kids.”
The ketchup bottle wavers. “How do you even remember that?”
“It was horrifying.”
“You used to eat canned meat. You can’t talk.”
We’re so close, the nozzles on our condiment bottles are touching. “And how do you remember that?”
“My mother tells the story every time your name comes up. That poor Wyatt Morgan, we had to introduce him to real lunch meat. Think what would’ve happened to the boy’s diet if he’d never moved in down the street.”
“Lies. All lies.” So very close. I could kiss her. I shouldn’t, but I could.
Her gaze dips to my lips, a smile growing, and I’m nearly there when she suddenly jerks back and squirts ketchup across my shirt.
She gapes for a minute at me, suspended in shock. “Oh, shit,” she gasps. “I didn’t mean—”
I squeeze my bottle and get her with mustard across her chin and neck.
She squirts again, and I dive out of my chair to miss the red stream. “That was an accident, you jerk!” she shrieks.
“Likely story,” I retort, aiming the mustard just to her right.
A bird squawks indignantly. “Motherfucker, kiss my ass.” There’s a flap of wings, and Long Beak Silver shoots into the air with a streak of yellow that wasn’t on his feathers before.
We both stare at the bird.
“Oh my god, you shot Long Beak Silver,” Ellie whispers in horror.
“All your fault,” I repeat, hastily stealing her ketchup bottle and moving all the condiments two tables away.
She’s wiping the mustard off her face when Davis appears at the top of the stairs. His man bun is freshly straightened, his beard thick enough to be hiding a squeeze bottle, and he’s shaking his head. “Foreplay?”
“Shut up,” Ellie says.
I grab a napkin and wipe the mustard she missed under her jaw.
“How’s the patient?” I ask him.
“Sitting pretty with Ellie at 802,700, but I could change that to my name.”
“You are a god,” Ellie tells him. “I could even kiss that flea-infested beard. Sit. Lunch is on Wyatt.”
“So generous,” Davis replies. “Where’s your kid?”
I point to the treasure dig. “With the human parrot.”
“Ah. Anyway, bill’s in the mail. I’m heading home.”
“But you just got here,” Ellie says while I add, “Kick up your feet and stay a while.”
“No can do. I’ve got a reactor to hack.” He turns his gaze to Ellie. “We’re even now. Don’t break it again.”
“Swear on the penalty of having to watch Beck do a photo shoot, I will not touch Frogger again for the rest of my life.”
“Kiss her for me,” he adds to me. He gives us both a salute and disappears down the stairs again.
“You are not kissing me,” Ellie whispers.
“Now it’s a challenge,” I tell her.
“I’m so freaking serious, Wyatt. We can be friends, but we cannot touch, kiss, get naked, take baths, or do any other thing that people who date do. We will literally die. The universe does not want us together.”
And on top of that, she has a life in Copper Valley, and my situation is complicated.
“We have to touch at the very least,” I point out, because I’m apparently a masochistic idiot. “I’m your boyfriend this week. Your wedding date. Remember?”
“Fine. Touching. But only in public, and only when absolutely necessary. And we should probably both wear protective gear to bed—which we’re going to separately—and take shifts sleeping in case the house burns down around us.”
I don’t bother trying to hide my grin. “Sure. We’ll set up a schedule.”
“Don’t mock me. I’m serious.”
“As a heart attack?” I prompt.
She swats at my hand. “Do not tempt fate,” she hisses.
“All right, all right. No touching, no kissing, no nothing unless absolutely necessary to sell your story.”
“Thank you.”
She smiles.
I smile.
Boundaries should be a good thing. I don’t have room in my life for falling for Ellie Ryder. Not with the added complications it would bring.
But agreeing to her new terms feels more fake than pretending to be her boyfriend for the wedding.
And I don’t want to think about what that means.
Eighteen
Ellie
Because a wedding at the Pirate Festival is a big deal—especially since Shipwreck is competing with the Unicorn Festival in the small town of Sarcasm not ten miles away—Monica and Jason are guest judges for the pirate costume, ship model, and food contests, and the entire wedding party is invited along to help offer opinions. So Wednesday night, Wyatt, Tucker, and I join Monica, Jason, and their families at the Deep Blue Retreat Center, where dozens of pirate ship models are on display in the semi-circular conference room, which has windows overlooking the soft, hazy mountain ridges on either side of Shipwreck.
“These are amazing,” Monica says as we walk along the curved row of tables holding the ships submitted by the school-age kids in Shipwreck. Some are made of Legos, some out of popsicle sticks, some out of clay, but they’re all adorable and really cool in which details the kids picked to highlight.
Almost all of them have a fake bird, and at least half have signs added about no cussing on deck.
My personal favorite is the one made out of recycled food containers, and I know Monica’s totally going to vote for that one too, since her day job is making art out of recycled materials.
“Dad, can I make a pirate ship?” Tucker asks.
“Sure. I’ve got some Legos for you at home.”
“No, Dad, to enter in the contest!”
“Next year, bud. They’re closed this year.”
“I’ll judge your ship, Tucker,” Monica tells him. “And I’d bet it’ll be awesome.”
They’re best friends since hanging out digging for treasure this morning.
“How’s your leg today?” Monica’s mom asks me as we make our way to the next room, which has tables and tables loaded down with pirate-themed food.
“Better than a peg leg,” I tell her.
“Dad! Dad, can I have an octopus?” Tucker asks.
Wyatt catches him by the shoulders. “Slow down, there, Captain Hollow Leg. See Miss Monica’s scoring chart? She needs to decide what’s pretty before we taste it, and then she has to rate how good it is.”
“No need to worry, we have extras for the wee ones.” Pop Rock ambles over, dressed today like his ancestor, Thorny Rock. “Right this way, right this way.”
My stomach gives a timely growl, and Monica laughs. “Go on, Ellie. All of you. We’ll be done soon.”
“I’ve never eaten a hot dog in my life,” Mrs. Dixon murmurs to her husband. “This is the most undignified festival I’ve ever seen.”
“I think it’s fun,” Sloane declares. “They say fun cures constipation.”
Patrick shoots her a look. She smiles back tightly.
And Wyatt and I share a look.
So there’s trouble in Patrick-Sloane land.
Pop opens the door to the center’s industrial kitchen, and oh my word, the food.
So much food.
Plates and platters of entrées, appetizers, sides, and— “Cookies!” Tucker exclaims.
It’s the same food out on display—deviled egg ships with pirate flags, island pizza, quicksand dip, pirate eyeballs, hot dogs cut into wedges with the bottom half sliced to give it octopus legs, meat cannonballs—except there are paper pirate plates and napkins and a huge bowl of pirate punch that’s obviously been dipped into.
“Eat up, me hearties,” Pop says. “That there be kiddie punch, because me blasted crew drank up all the rum last night.”
“Are these meatballs made with chicken?” Mrs. Dixon demands, pointing to the pirate eyeballs.
Monica’s mom smiles. She’s dressed like a hippie pirate, with a scabbard tied over her flowery muumuu and a pirate hat on her short graying hair. “Yes, Caroline, they’re chicken. I called ahead and checked because I knew you’d prefer it.”
Wyatt and I both turn around before Mrs. Dixon looks at either of us. He dives for a plate to help Tucker make a few healthy choices before getting to dessert, and I take a minute to wipe the smile off my face as I pretend to decide between the quicksand dip and shovels—aka hummus and vegetables—and the grilled parrot—aka chicken wings.
Ultimately, both win.
We all load up our plates and carry them into the center’s dining room, where other judges are eating and discussing the festival. Monica’s mom takes the seat beside me at the rectangular table, and Wyatt and Tucker pile in across from us.
Jason’s family sits at the table behind me, and I breathe a sigh of relief that I can make any face I want without fear of getting an earful of loudly murmured insults.