Dream On(28)

I smile so wide my cheeks ache. “No way.”

“Way.” Gathering my hand, he tugs me to the corner, and we peer through the window. Inside, upturned chairs crown small, circular tables, and the lights are off.

“Closed.” I sigh dramatically. “It looks like I can’t make my desires come to life after all.”

I only realize Devin’s still holding my hand when he sweeps his thumb along my knuckles and the sensation burrows straight into my belly. “We’ll see,” he murmurs.

We continue, hand in hand. My skin tingles against his and my head feels curiously light, like I might float away on a dream. We take a right at the next corner down a less crowded side street.

“So… any other ideas for how we can explain what’s going on here?” I ask.

He stops walking. So do I. Behind him, neon lettering in the window of a low brick building proclaims Kinetic Kanteen Pinball Parlor. This must be the place. Before I can make a move for the door, he gathers my other hand and squeezes. My heart stutter-steps when he dips his chin to peer into my face.

“What if your memories are a sign that we were supposed to meet? That fate somehow brought us together?” he asks softly.

“Is that really what you think?”

“I have no idea.” He chuckles softly. “But I do know I like you. And I’m glad we met.”

My heart thunders in my aching chest. “Me too,” I whisper.

He’s so close I can see every line, every plane of his beautiful face. The straight, sharp angle of his nose. The dim shadows under his cheekbones. A scar above his left eyebrow catches the light. Thin and white, it’s roughly an inch long and follows the contour of his arch, fanning out past the tip. I frown. That’s strange; I don’t remember ever drawing a scar.

“You’re staring.” His dark eyes twinkle.

“I’m sorry.” With an apologetic smile, I slip my hands out of his. “Part of me still has a hard time believing you’re real.”

Grasping my right hand, he lays my palm flat against his cheek. His skin is as cool and smooth as satin. “I’m real.”

The city noises quiet around us and the only thing in the whole world is Devin. His face—the face I know so well—seems to grow larger until it fills my entire field of vision. My limbs are loose and languid from the cocktails, and I teeter closer, drawn by the powerful urge to live the memories I’ve only imagined. Devin’s gaze drops to my lips. My tongue sneaks out to wet my bottom lip, and his eyes grow hooded.

A loud knock reverberates somewhere behind us, and I snatch my hand back and look around automatically. Standing in the window of the pinball parlor is Devin’s brother—what is he doing here? The glass is tinted so his features are indistinct, but there’s no mistaking the smirk on his face. “Fancy seeing you here,” he calls, voice muffled.

“Perry?” Devin splutters. “What the fuck?” he mouths at the window before turning to me. “I’m sorry, Cass. Perry texted earlier to ask where I was, and I told him we were headed here. I didn’t think he’d show up. We can go somewhere else if you want.”

My gut squeezes with disappointment, but I wave it away. “It’s okay that Perry’s here.”

His eyebrows jerk upward. “It is?”

“I mean, maybe he has some ideas we haven’t explored yet that might explain why I remember you? We can say hello, chat for a few minutes, and if you want, continue our evening elsewhere.” My voice comes out a few notches huskier than I anticipate, and Devin’s dark eyes smolder as he runs his fingertips down the length of my arm. Heat pools in my gut. Maybe it’s the booze, or maybe it’s the fact that it’s been way too long since a man touched me like this, but finding a quieter, Perry-less place sounds pretty damn good right about now.

Perry raps on the window again. “You guys coming or what?”

A giggle bursts out of me, and Devin groans even as he tips his head back and smiles at the star-speckled sky. “Be right in,” he calls.

A breeze whips my hair around my shoulders as Devin opens the door for me and we step inside. Despite the dim pendant lighting, Kinetic Kanteen is an explosion of colorful nostalgia and pure kitsch. Vintage Christmas decorations line the walls, interspersed with neon skateboards, movie posters, vinyl records, and garage sale decor celebrating Cleveland’s pop culture past. In a high corner above the bar between a 1968 Jimi Hendrix concert poster and a Drew Carey bobblehead, there’s even a replica of the famous leg lamp from A Christmas Story.

Electronic dings from the dozen or so pinball machines lined up in rows punctuate the classic rock music pumping through the speakers and the chatter from the mostly hipster crowd. Perry’s moved to a high table near the bar. When he spots us, he lifts his beer in welcome and saunters over. He’s wearing faded jeans slung low on his hips and a fitted olive T-shirt that hugs his biceps—very different from his loose, pollen-stained shirt from Monday. I swallow. Judging by his defined muscles, Devin isn’t the only one in his family who works out.

“Dev.” Perry nods.

“Per. Why are you here?”

“You invited me, remember?”

“No, I told you where I was going. I don’t recall extending an invitation.”

“It was implied.” He slaps Devin on the shoulder. “So! How’s the big meet-up going with Mystery Girl? Make any earth-shattering discoveries?”