I do not own Power Rangers: Jungle Fury.
Dom and Fran are adorbs.
Places in Books
The Places A Vespa Can Take You
Ahhhh.
This is so much . . .
"Better?"
She just can't quite tear her enraptured gaze away.
"Yes. It's wonderful. Thank you for bringing me here, Dom."
Not even for a glimpse of the handsome companion at her side.
"I'm glad you like it."
She does, she does like it.
Yes, she very much does.
The day, the day itself, is beyond perfect, absolutely lovely.
Whiffs of clouds drift lazily across the azure sky.
Pushed gently along by the warm, time-and-again breeze that lifts the flyways from her pigtailed hair.
Blows them across her face.
As she continues to soak in the idyllic Dutch vista laid before her.
The windmill is perfect.
All sturdy brown round wooden base and tan stories.
Grey slated roof.
And huge, grey fanned-blades and railed white observatory platform.
The people standing upon it look small and antlike.
For Fran and her amicable escort are a ways back.
An entire garden of brightly colored, carefully cultivated tulips between them.
And the picturesque Keukenhof windmill.
She would have traveled here for the tulips alone, red and purple and yellow and pink, black and orange.
A profusion of color, chaotically random, yet perfectly harmonious in its beauty.
But the added treat of the windmill is . . .
"It's like a postcard."
. . . absolute, sheer perfection.
"I think they have some in the giftshop."
She mmm's in her throat, still wonderfully taken with the paradise before her.
As if the perfect countryside spread around them isn't enough, the ride here proved just as exhilarating.
"-bus. We could also . . ."
Dom had trailed off then, expression suddenly playful and mischievous.
And Fran had been bewildered.
"What?"
"Wellll . . ."
And then she had . . .
"Oh gosh. Really?"
. . . looked to her left.
"You think it's safe?"
And Dom had grinned that grin.
"How about it, Fran? Up for it?"
And she had, much as when he had asked her to come with him on this trip in the first place. . .
"Yes!"
. . . found her burgeoning exuberance overwhelmed her anxious hesitation.
It wasn't a motorcycle.
Not in the least.
Harley Davidson loyalists would snort and shake their heads.
Hell's Angels would eat them for breakfast with Cheerios and milk.
But Frances Faye Fugleman . . .
"You having a good time, Frannie?"
"Yes!"
. . . couldn't have cared less.
The vespa was orange, bright orange to be precise.
Its top speed claimed fifty; its engine being basically a sewing machine battery. Fran didn't think they cracked forty-two.
But she had found that to be relief, that sense of assurity that they weren't going to go careening off the side of any cliffs.
Not that she had seen any cliffs on the flatlands of The Netherlands.
But you could never tell.
Nevertheless, Dom had insisted on helmets for both of them.
Even helping her secure hers . . .
"There."
. . . after adjusting his own . . .
"Too tight?"
. . . whilst gazing deep . . .
"No."
. . . her eyes . . .
"Good."
. . . as he did so.
The moment had seemed to stretch between them and she had found herself barely breathing, waiting for the inevitable kiss-
"Okay. Ready?"
-until he had grinned, . . .
"Mmm-hmmm . . ."
. . . stepped back . . .
"Alright. Let's go!'
. . . and broken the moment.
Oh. Okay.
She hadn't been too disappointed though.
"Okay, Fran. Hop on and put your arms around me."
"What?"
He had huffed a chuckle.
"It's a Vespa but we can still wreck it if we're not in sync. Put your arms around my waist and just lean with me."
Oh my gosh-
And so she had.
She had held on just like he asked her to.
A little bit less than an hour.
Frannie Fugleman, arms tight around Dominic Hargan, t-shirted front pressed up against t-shirted back.
Shortsed knees gripping khakied hips.
Head twisting and turning all around, why can't she just be an owl, just to make sure she doesn't miss a single thing.
And it had been . . .
"Well, that wasn't too bad, was it?"
"Oh no. Not at all."
. . . easy peasy.
Now, sitting there in the middle of the most sublime Dutch countryside paradise Fran could ever imagine . . .
"I love this. It's just perfect."
. . . she just felt so very peaceful . . .
"Thank you for this."
. . . and happy.
"You're welcome."
She could just positively stay in this one spot forever.
"And when we get back to Amsterdam, if you want, we'll go on a hunt for The Secret Book Market."
At this, she finally turns to him.
Dominic.
Legs stretched straight out, ankles crossed.
Kicked back, propped up on grass-planted elbows.
Head lolled casually on the plaid-shirted shoulder closer to her.
Innocently mischievous sky blue gaze meeting her astounded one as she focuses in . . .
"The what?"
. . . on him.
And that impish grin broadening to reveal small, even, white teeth.
"You'll see."
In clear enjoyment of her complete . . .
"Maybe."
. . . mystification.
"If we can find it."
Thanks to Seth A. Mincberg for previously reviewing.
Hope you like the windmill and the tulips, also in the story pic.
Thanks also to OrangeJaw29 for adding your support to this story as well. :)