is barely made before I grab Nina’s elbow and shoot her hand into the air. Holding her arm high, I whisper, “Chorophobia.”
She all but faints.
“Oh, my God, no! No, no, no! Sorry. I can’t. I just…oh my God, please—please drop my arm.” She tries to wiggle free, but I don’t let go. Not that it matters. I spoke with the organizer when I booked our spots and told her it was Nina’s birthday. Told her she’d always wanted to try the traditional Maori dance. I take my role as Phobia Slayer seriously.
When the largest Maori guy smiles and strides toward us, my grin fades. He stops a foot in front of Nina and holds out his hand. She tilts her head back to see his face.
So do I.
“Come with me, pretty girl. Let’s start your lessons.” His gaze rakes up and down her body, and I want to tear his head off. Unfortunately, I’d have about as much luck with that as swimming in a blood-filled shark tank. This dude is a giant.
Her tiny hand sinks into his, and he leads her away, terror on her face, a deep frown on mine. The sight of her hand in his makes it hard to swallow. This girl has me so upside down, I can barely think straight. I want her but can’t risk her rejection, so I end up sitting here watching as Conan the fucking Barbarian drags her off to probably flirt with her and do God knows what else. If she doesn’t kill me, I might kill myself.
She glances back once, glaring. I cup my hands around my mouth and holler, “Chase the crazy, Canada. Let your freak flag fly!” That gets a smile tugging at her lips, but I’m still frowning.
* * *
I sit on the foldable chair, my knee bouncing restlessly as I wait for the show to begin. I distract myself from worrying over that Maori dude hitting on Nina by studying the carved walls. The native Maori culture is evident all over Rotorua, but this sacred meetinghouse is awesome. The walls are thick with reddish-brown carvings, legends and stories told through art. I wish I knew how to read them.
Seconds later, a woman walks on stage barefoot in a traditional Maori costume: a fitted tank top with patterned diamonds in red, white, and black, and the same fringed skirt the men wear. A band is fastened around her forehead in a similar pattern. Nina’s ushered on stage with a few other women, the men standing behind them. They’ve given her a headband, too, and her red hair hangs loose over her shoulders.
She looks pale—paler than usual—her lips pulled tight, her eyes darting over the audience. When she spots me, she gives me her angry, squinty face. So damn cute. I shrug back, smirking.
The same lady who was watching us outside is sitting at my left. She leans over and asks, “Your girlfriend?”
“Yes,” I say with my sights locked on Nina. The word drops without hesitation. It feels great to say it, to pretend she’s mine. To pretend I’m the old Sam with the pumped thighs and smooth skin that powered me on the football field. The guy who would’ve put the moves on Nina by now.
The lady chuckles and taps the purse clutched on her lap. Her bracelets jingle. “Looks like she’s not exactly thrilled about her impending performance. How’d you convince her to get up there?”
I cringe. “Do forcing and convincing mean the same thing?”
She looks up at Nina, then back at me. She laughs again. “Good luck with her later. You might need to work extra hard to earn her forgiveness.” Then she winks at me.
Nice. This lady is pushing sixty and basically told me to have sex with my girlfriend. And work extra hard at it. My girlfriend. It doesn’t even feel like a lie, not with the time we’ve spent together. I’ve decided travel time is like dog years. Four days of traveling together is equivalent to hanging out for four months. I already have a list of adorable stuff I love about Nina. The way she hums when she’s eating something she likes. The way her teeth scrape her lip when she’s deep in thought.
Jesus, am I in trouble.
Suddenly, Nina’s gaze drops as she smiles shyly. When I realize it’s because that Maori dude is behind her whispering in her ear, I crumple the pamphlet I’ve been holding. His massive hand moves to rest on her hip, and blood rushes