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.
“Why? Why are you crazy about him?” I demand as I try to break her down with rib tickles. In a knee-jerk reaction, she literally does just that—jams her knee into my stomach to try to make me stop. I block it, and her kneecap grazes my hip. Doesn’t even hurt.
“Because,” she says on a breathless pant, as my fingers race up her sides, “he makes me laugh.”
I’m near her armpits now. “Why else?”
“Because he opens the door for me,” she says, hitting a high note on the last word as I reach her most ticklish spot.
“One more reason,” I demand as I trap her, my lower body pinning her, and I capture one leg between both of mine.
Her laughter ceases abruptly, and her eyes widen. “He’s huge,” she says in a whisper.
We both go silent for a few seconds. Then I nod approvingly and end the torment. “You have proven your loyalty to the cause.”
I look down at her. Her hair falls in a wild mess, her black tank rides up her stomach, revealing inches of soft flesh, and her breath comes in heavy pants. This is the moment when I should move off her. I really should. She’s not wiggling anymore. She’s not fighting me. I’m supposed to let go, offer her a hand, and take her ring shopping.
But her eyes seem different. I’ve never seen them like this. Something vulnerable flickers through them. “We should practice,” she says in a soft voice, her words landing on the air like snowflakes.
“Practice?” I repeat, because though I’m pretty confident what she means, I don’t want to assume anything.
Her lips part, and her tongue slides across the bottom one. “What we did on the street. So it’s believable.”
“Is kissing part of the charade?”
She nods. “I can’t imagine two people who just got engaged wouldn’t kiss at least once tomorrow at the dinner event. It would make it more believable, don’t you think? Can’t look like the first time we’ve done it.”
“Right. Like in the movies where a man and woman have to share a hotel room at some inn, and they pretend to be together, and the innkeeper says at dinner, ‘Kiss the girl.’ That’s what you mean, right?”
She smiles beneath me, then she bites the corner of her lip like she did at the coffee shop. At the time, I resisted the impulse to give her a quick peck. Now, I don’t. I press my lips to that corner and kiss her.
A soft kiss.
I pull back. Her chest rises and falls. Her eyes look wild. “Is that what you want?”
“No,” she says.
“What do you want?”
“A real kiss. I want to know how my fiancé kisses for real. Not just a soft little kiss on the street.”
“A real kiss. Are you sure?”
“Yes. Why wouldn’t I be sure? You’re not a horrid kisser, are you?” Her hand flies to her mouth. “Oh my God. That’s it. You kiss in some weird way,” she says as she takes her hand off her mouth.