The cake is unexpected and delicious, the kind of surprise I would have loved from anyone, but there's something extra sweet about Blake knowing I'd enjoy it and then secretly planning it. As though he really has been paying attention the last few months, and what I've been telling myself since he ditched me at the motel—that he must have found me annoying, that he never wanted to spend time with me, that I should have just slept with him and called it a day, that everything I'd started to feel for him wasn't the least bit reciprocated—is a lie.

"I should probably get back to my motel," I say as he pays the bill.

"Can I walk you there?"

"It's a long walk. I took an Uber to get here. And we're literally at your hotel. Walking me there would be silly."

"Or the best kind of groveling," he says.

"Pretty sure my feet are going to disagree on that one. You just need to close your rings, don't you?"

He flashes me his watch with the circles complete and then his gaze sweeps over my face. "We can walk up Clifton Hill and mock the gaudiness of it all."

"Based on what I saw from the Uber, it looked pretty fantastic, actually."

"Sounds about right," he says, a hint of a smile tugging on his lips. "Loud music, flashing lights, huge advertisements for experiences to try—all the things you love."

He's teasing me, and I sort of love it. His admission that there's a lot going on beyond the surface with him—things I probably can't even imagine—makes me think he might need the walk as much as I do. If I don't go, I'll have wasted my three nights here in wrong assumptions and hurt feelings. Might as well put all that firmly in the past. "You're right. What's a little walk when we get to experience all that excitement?" I rise from my seat. "Let the groveling commence."

"Hasn't it already started?" Blake asks in disbelief. "The cake?"

"The cake was good," I say. "I'm just hoping you didn't lead with your best effort."

He chuckles and shakes his head. "Why would I ever do that?" When he glances at me, his eyes brim with amusement.

"Exactly. I'm very much a 'save the best for last' type of person."

"Funny," he says, "I would have classified you as a person who seizes the day—more a spender than a saver."

"Since I'm the one making the rules," I say as we walk onto the elevator that'll take us to street level, "I can be both."

"We're still having rules?" When our gazes connect, a shiver runs along my spine, a delicious warning. What I say here matters because the brief time apart has shifted something between us. I like it, and I'm terrified of it all at once.

"Seize the day me thinks we should throw every rule out," I admit. Didn't I tell Izzy that I wish I'd just slept with him? "But 'best for last' me thinks some rules should stay."

"Not in the mood for chaos, eh?"

"As my sister Paige would say, 'There's a time and place for everything.' Not every day needs to be filled with poor choices." I lead him out of the elevator and onto the street where we turn to head up the hill. His hotel is much more centrally located than mine.

"Sensible," he agrees, but his tone has lost its flirty edge.

"I'm trying it on for size." My willpower has never been great where gorgeous men like Blake are concerned, and if he pushed the issue, I'd fold like a cheap lawn chair.

The hill is steep, and it overflows with lights—loud and brash that advertise everything from motel rooms to haunted houses to arcades to restaurants. For lots of people, it would feel like sensory overload and definitely garish. But I actually like how much it screams for people to live in the moment, experience it all. As a life philosophy, I think it's a pretty great one.

Even though it's late, Niagara Falls is feeling a bit like Las Vegas with no real sense of time. Everything I suggest we do on the way to my motel, Blake agrees. At first, I love how he digs out his wallet for each thing and reminds me that it's part of the groveling.

But by the time we've done the arcade, the wax museum, the faux London Eye, and we're headed into the self-proclaimed "scariest" Haunted House—which is one I'd normally avoid—his generosity might be at level of groveling I'm not comfortable with anymore.

"I can pay for this one," I say, digging my wallet out of my purse, which is being dominated by my water-wine bottle.

"Tomorrow," he says as he passes the person in the booth some cash. "Let me have tonight."

He rarely lets me pay for much on a normal day, but the extravagance on his part is causing guilt to pinch me. A few days ago, he didn't even want to travel with me anymore, and I don't want him to think I'm taking advantage now.

"I was mostly kidding about the groveling. Even if you were my boyfriend, this would be too much." The second part slips out without me thinking, and then I realize it might sound like I want him to be my boyfriend.

The attendant gives Blake his change, and then Blake focuses on me at the entry. "Two things. If I was your boyfriend, my groveling would be of a very different nature." His eye contact is confident and suggestive.

That is definitely a sexual innuendo. Holy shit. Heat races across my body and down to my core.

Do I want Blake referring to sex? My brain is exploding in silence while my lower half does a happy dance. If he's thinking about sleeping with me, and I've already been thinking about it for weeks—with a graphic sketchbook as proof—we're in big trouble. My willpower has been dangling by the thread of his perceived indifference.

"And two, if a boyfriend of yours wasn't doing at least this to make it up to you, you need higher standards."

"It's possible my standards have been pretty basic in the past. Attractive and funny." I hold up two fingers, attempting to diffuse the electric vibe between us but my breathing is shallow, likely giving me away.

"Maybe not higher then," he says softly, "just more of them." He grazes my cheekbone with his thumb as he tucks a stray strand of hair from my ponytail behind my ear, and awareness races down my spine.

I both love and hate how much we're casually touching each other tonight. In the past with men, I've never questioned whether I should jump in, I just went for it. But I've also never had this kind of ticking clock, never been so sure I wanted each and every minute I could get with someone. Boyfriends in the past burned bright and hot before fizzling.

Blake offers me his hand as we step through the thick and heavy black plastic blocking the entrance of the haunted house. Inside, it's so dark, I can't see Blake or anything else. Just a wall of darkness as we shuffle along.

"Blake," I eek out, grateful for his hand that I've put in a death grip. I did not think this experience through very well.

"Scared?" he asks.

"Nope," I say, but I switch from clinging to his hand to leeching onto his whole arm, plastering myself against him. Any second something is going to pop out of the darkness. "I'm a screamer."

"Thanks for the warning." Blake chuckles. "Does that apply to all situations or just—"

A skeleton bursts out of the wall, and I jump at the suddenness of its appearance, a startled scream piercing the hallway. Then I dance around, tapping my feet, trying to shake out the rush of adrenaline, still clinging to Blake's arm. And he's laughing.

"My heart, oh my god. Can you feel that?" I press his palm against my chest in the darkness. Spooky music has started up, maybe signaling we've progressed far enough into the house for all the action to happen.

"I feel it," Blake says, his voice raw, and I realize what I've done.

If he was my boyfriend, I'd mold myself to him, feather my lips against the hollow of his throat, enjoy how turned on he'd become.

But he's not. And going down that path is likely a very bad idea for the two and a half months we still have left on the trip. So, I drop his hand, and I loosen my very tight grip on his arm.

"You can hold onto me," Blake says.

"I know, it's just..." A waving white thing drops from the ceiling, and I gasp before burying my face in his chest. Why did I agree to the Haunted House? I hate anything horror related.

Blake shuffles us forward, my face still buried in his chest, and I'm violating every physical space rule I've ever put in place, but it's really comforting to have him broad and solid guiding us through each turn, each surprise I'm trying very hard not to experience.

"I thought you'd love something like this," Blake murmurs against my ear. "Danger and mayhem."

"Scary movies and haunted houses are my Achilles heel." I fist more of his T-shirt into my hand. 

"You should have said before we came in." He's practically carrying me now.

"I was distracted." Which is true. We'd been having so much fun jumping from one thing to another, and there was that tiny bit of unease when he suggested it. But that was overshadowed by the guilt that he was spending all his money when I'm capable of paying. Then we were inside, and my brain caught up to what we were doing.

Pretty typical for me. Leap first, regret later. Except normally, I'm like 'cool, new experience' instead of 'oh, my god, why did I do this to myself?' while clinging onto my hot travel companion who I'm still supposed to be pretending is not enormously attractive to me.

It feels like we've twisted and turned our way through three haunted houses by the time we emerge back out into the bright artificial lights of the street.

"Are you okay?" Blake asks when I finally release him.

"Guaranteed to have nightmares tonight," I say as we keep walking toward the top of the hill. From there, we've probably still got a few miles before we reach my motel.

We've run out of things to do that are either interesting to one of us or are still open. He's put the motel's address in his phone with directions by foot. 

"You had two days without me," I say. "What exciting things did you do?"

"Well." He rubs the back of his neck. "I did a lot of running. I, uh, could probably get us to your hotel without the GPS."

Part of me thinks it serves him right for ditching me with no explanation. We could have easily lost contact forever. But another part of me is sad that we were both so miserable. "Want to know what I did?"

"I bet you did all those wine tours of Niagara-on-the-Lake, and you rented a bicycle to do them like we talked about."

"You're right about the wine." I laugh. "But the tour consisted of my motel room along with approximately one family sized chocolate bar for every meal."

He's quiet in response, and I wonder whether I should have lied. In my experience, though, at some point the truth slips out.

"Tomorrow," I say, trying to steer us back onto firm ground. "What's the plan?"

As we walk, we talk about what we still want to see around here and the next few legs of our trip, and by the time we get to my hotel room, things between us seem like they're back to normal. Sexual tension is at a weak hum. We've re-plotted our trip, and I've almost, but not quite, forgotten how much I hated the haunted house.

"You're on the ground floor?" Blake asks, his surprise clear as we wander to the door of the two-story motel complex. All the rooms open onto the ground floor or to a balcony.

"Do not say it like that." I point my finger at him before I insert my key. "You're going to freak me out. We're on thin ice here. One crack away from a total freak out about having to sleep here alone."

I step inside, turn on every light, and I try to ignore the cool sweat that's returned at the thought of being by myself tonight. I should check the bathroom before Blake leaves to make sure no one is lurking in here.

"Listen," Blake says, leaning against my doorframe. "I still have the suite. We'll both sleep better knowing you're safe."

"I'm sure this place is perfectly safe." I gesture around me, but I glance toward the bathroom door that's partially shut. "Barely left here for two days, and all was well."

"I can tell by the look on your face that all is not well right now. Coming with me now saves me a trip here to pick you up in the morning."

"If I'm doing you a favor..." I bite my lip and stare at him, but he doesn't press me anymore. His patience should be admirable, but I would like one more nudge, even if it makes sense on multiple levels to go with him. "I'd rather not walk all the way back. It's late. Dark."

Blake withdraws his phone from his pocket. "Uber. I wasn't planning to walk back."

I turn from him to take in my room. My stuff is strewn everywhere, as though my backpack blew up. It'll take me a few minutes to get everything packed, and my instinct is to tell him not to worry, I'll be fine. But I've freaked myself out enough times to also know I'll regret that choice the minute he's gone. Every creak, every squeak will cause me to tug the covers a little tighter, stay awake a little longer.

"Is the driver already on the way? I can just shove everything into my backpack and organize it tomorrow." I start rushing around the room, and Blake comes in, passing me things to put in the pack. "Just make a pile on the bed," I say as I go into the bathroom to collect my toiletries.

I've shoving things in plastic bags and drying damp shower bottles when Blake calls my name in the oddest voice. I pop my head out of the bathroom door, and my stomach drops into my feet. In his hands is my sketchbook—not the one he's flipped through countless times—the other one. The one that shall not be named. The one Blake Robinson was never supposed to lay eyes on.

"Is this...?" He glances up at me, and his cheeks are tinged with pink.

"No! Nope. Whatever you're thinking, the answer is no." I rush toward him, and I snatch the book from his hand, averting my eyes. There's a chance I may never be able to look at him again.

"Because it looked—"

"It's not. It wasn't." I shove it deep into my pack. "Maybe you should go outside to wait for the Uber."

"Gwen," he says in a tone that makes me feel unreasonable for my embarrassment.

"It's not you," I practically yell. "Go wait for the Uber."

He goes to the door, and I keep frantically stuffing things in my pack. I'll likely forget something because my stress level just went through the two-story roof of this motel. I cannot believe he saw the sketchbook. What was I thinking letting him help me get organized?

I don't even blame him for looking. Except for the number two written in black sharpie in the top corner, there was no way for him to realize they weren't the sketches he's always flipped through without issue.

In the Uber we're both silent, and as we dance around each other in the suite getting ready for bed, very few words are exchanged. God, what must he be thinking?

Nothing good. He could even be horrified. That I'm obsessed with having sex with him. That I'm obsessed with him.

I am, but I would have preferred he never know.

Despite the innuendos and casual touches that happened tonight, Blake has made no effort to seduce me or even kiss me or anything. Nothing. We're the very definition of platonic.

I lie in the much more comfortable bed, in the much nicer hotel, and all I can think about is how awkward it's going to be in the morning. Even with my protests, he's not an idiot. Those drawings were very clearly him... With, perhaps, some embellishments—hard to say.

For the rest of the night, I toss and turn, and my nightmares aren't about ghosts or skeletons in the closet, there're about me walking out on a stage, naked, to a thousand versions of Blake, none of whom take the slightest interest in what they see.

The Nanny is now a paid story on Wattpad. Thanks to everyone who read and loved it!

Update: Friday

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