“I shall wear my medal with honor.”
“Mr. Cane,” the pilot says over the speaker. “We’ll be landing shortly. Please take your seat and buckle up.”
I pat Lottie’s leg. “Are you ready for this?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t think so, but it doesn’t look like I have time to prepare myself.” Before she gets off my lap, she reaches out and cups my cheek. Her facial features turn soft, endearing, as she says, “If I forget to say it tonight, thank you, Huxley. Thank you so much for this. You’re really making a dream of mine come true.”
I place my hand on hers and move it to my mouth to kiss her palm. “You’re welcome, Lottie.”
“I’m sweating.”
“What?” I laugh. “What do you mean you’re sweating?”
We’re standing in line, waiting to enter the concert hall, and this is the first thing she’s said to me since we left the car after finishing off our donuts. We shared a burger and fries at Killer Burger, opting for the peanut butter burger, before we headed over to Voodoo Doughnut and each got a donut, but split them, so we could have a taste of each. Lottie’s idea. But she’s been silent ever since the donuts were consumed. I asked her a question at one point, but she didn’t answer, instead, continued to stare out the window. I wasn’t sure what was going through her head, so I chose to just let her have her peace.
Holding on tightly to my hand, she leans in close to me and says, “I’m so excited, Hux. I’m sweaty. I’m nervous. My body doesn’t know what to do with itself.”
I like it when she calls me Hux. It sounds good coming from her lips.
“Are you going to fangirl out?”
“Uh, yeah,” she says with confidence. “If you didn’t expect that, you clearly don’t know me at all. And I expect you to fangirl out as well.”
“I’ll get my girly scream ready.”
She chuckles. “What I wouldn’t give to hear it.” The doors open and the crowd grows closer as people begin to filter into the vintage Art Deco building.
“Before we head in, want to take a picture with the marquee?” I ask. She’s nervous, so she might say no.
“Oh, great idea,” she answers.
Thank fuck.
I take my phone from my pocket and switch it to camera mode. Lottie curls against my side and places her hand on my chest, and I angle the phone just right to capture my height, her height, and the marquee above us.
Once I take a few, I say, “I’ll text you the best one.”
“Please do. I want to send one to my mom. She’s going to freak out.”
“Is she a Fleetwood Mac fan too?” I pocket my phone as we move closer to the building.
“Yes. She was the one who introduced me to their music, basically to all the music I love.”
“If I knew, I would’ve invited her as well.”
“Stop. It’s better like this, making her jealous.” Lottie smiles, and . . . fuck . . . I like that smile. I’m obsessed with that smile.
I’m obsessed with her.
“Daughter of the year.”
“I think so.” She bumps my shoulder with hers. “What about your brothers? Are they jealous?”
“They don’t know I’m here.”
“Really?” she asks, surprised. “You didn’t tell them?”
I shake my head. “No.”
She pauses and asks, “Didn’t want them to know about me?”
I clutch her hand tighter to ease any doubts that might be popping up in her head. “Didn’t want to hear their I-told-you-so’s.”
“What do you mean?” she asks, confused.
This is not the place I want to have this conversation, in a throng of people, but thankfully, we’re at the front of the line so I can press pause on my answer as I hand the ticket attendant our tickets. Once they’re scanned, we walk into the concert hall. From the outside, it stands above the rest, with its gothic-style columns surrounding the marquee, but on the inside, it’s decked out in gold wallpaper from floor to ceiling. Pops of a dusty sky-blue are carved into the pillars surrounding the lobby, while the floors are a colorfully glazed tile that must be original to its era of build. Breathtaking. Art Deco at its finest.
“Do you want a drink?” I ask her as we move toward a concession stand.
“Uh, sure,” she answers quietly, and I know the shift in her mood is from the question she asked that went unanswered.