Big Rock(14)

“Charlotte, it was my dad I told the story to. He didn’t ask.”

“But women will,” she points out, then wiggles her bare fingers. “Once I’ve got that ring on, all the women will be cooing over it and asking for the details of how we fell in love. Probably tomorrow at dinner. We need a story,” she says emphatically as she paces in the small kitchen. Then her eyes light up with excitement. “I got it! One Thursday night at The Lucky Spot, over a glass of wine after closing time, you made a joke about how everyone thinks we’re a couple, and I said ‘maybe we should be one.’ And then there was an awkward pause in the conversation,” she says, her tone softening, as if she’s reminiscing about that fateful night.

I go next, picking up the Mad Libs thread of our make-believe love story. “Only it wasn’t awkward. It was simply right,” I say, shooting her my best love-struck smile. “And we admitted then that we had feelings for each other.”

“And we had the hottest kiss ever. Obviously.”

I scoff. “Not just the hottest kiss. We had the hottest sex ever,” I say, because I have to up the ante like that.

She blushes, stays silent, and finishes her iced tea. I take another drink of mine and then place both glasses in her dishwasher, lining them up neatly on the top row, just like she prefers.

“Then to keep it simple, let’s pretend you proposed to me at the bar last night, since that’s where it all started. You proposed after everyone left. You got down on one knee and said you couldn’t even wait to get me a ring, but I had to be yours.”

“Perfect. Love it. Easy to remember.”

I close the dishwasher, and she meets my gaze. Her brown eyes are soft and sweet. “Spencer. Thank you.”

I give her a look like she’s crazy. “For putting the glasses in the dishwasher?”

“No. For putting up with all that.” She waves in the general direction of the rest of her apartment. “I was kind of putting you through your paces now. But I needed to feel like we could pull this off.”

“Do you now? Do you feel like you’re on your way to becoming Mrs. Holiday?”

She laughs. “That’s funny. Those are two words that we’ll never hear together again,” she says, running her hand absently down my arm as we leave the kitchen. “You’re the avowed bachelor for life.”

I nod, confirming my status. Total playboy. One hundred percent swinging single. No need to lasso this free bird. “Absolutely.”

She reaches for her purse on her living room table. “Wait. There’s just one more test.”

“You’re going to make me jump through another hoop? Sheesh. You are a pistol.”

She huffs. “I hardly think selecting my panties is some Herculean task. But be that as it may, this test is for me. It’s the final test to make sure I’m ready to walk into your dad’s store in our first public appearance as Mr. Holiday and his bride-to-be.”

I cross my arms, waiting to see what she’ll do next.

She looks me right in the eye, her lips a straight line, her expression starkly serious. “I need you to try to tickle the truth out of me.”

I arch an eyebrow skeptically. “For real?”

She nods. “Absolutely. You know it’s my weakness,” she says, backing up to her soft gray couch, and flopping down amidst a sea of pillows in blues, reds, and purples. She loves jewel-toned colors. As she lies across the cushions, the golden blonde strands of her hair fan out over a royal blue pillow. “Do it,” she commands. “I need to know I won’t cave. I need to prove to myself that even the torture of tickling won’t make me give up the secrets of my best friend.”

I unbutton my cuffs and roll up my shirt sleeves to my forearms.

“Don’t go easy on me,” she says.

“Not in my nature.”

“Make me squirm. Make it pure torture. Make me want to give it up. That’s the only way we’ll know if I can truly handle this charade for the next week.”

I hold my hands out wide. “All I can say, Snuffaluffagus, is you’re on.”

I run the few feet to the couch and go for it. I am a ferocious tickler and a tenacious competitor, and even though this is Charlotte, I’m not going to let up. Diving in, I tickle her waist, and in a nanosecond, she is wiggling.

“Admit it—you’re not really engaged to Spencer Holiday,” I say, like a harsh cross-examiner.

“He’s going to be my hubby, I swear,” she shrieks as I tickle harder, digging in.

“I don’t believe you. Tell the truth. It’s all an act. He made you do it.”

She squeals as she thrashes back and forth in a wild attempt to scramble away from me. Her uncontrollable laughter ripples through her. “I’ve been crazy about him forever.”

“I don’t believe you,” I bark, as I grapple with her hips. She might as well be an eel, she’s fighting so hard to wiggle away. She practically burrows into the couch pillows to escape my tickling. But I’m strong, and I’ve got her pinned. I move up her sides, and she arches her entire back in a curve.

“Oh my God, no!”

Holy shit. She is beyond ticklish. This is epic ticklishness. Her face is all scrunched up, her nose is crinkled, and her mouth is wide open as she laughs ceaselessly.