CHAPTER 11
CASSIE
“Okay, don’t kill me. But I like him. He’s funny.” Joy reaches across her lounger and hands me back my phone. I showed her last night’s text exchange with Tate with the goal of highlighting how embarrassing it was. Instead, she goes and declares her love for the guy who rejected me.
Not that I disagree with her assessment.
“He is funny,” I sigh. “And I like him too.”
As the memory of his rejection pricks at my skin, I order myself to conduct a silver-lining check. Shockingly, I land on something genuine.
“You know what, though? Maybe it’s a good thing he turned me down. I can see myself catching feelings,” I admit.
Joy gives me a somber look. “Oh boy. Yeah. That’s no good. You can’t fall for your summer fling. Well, unless you plan on moving to Avalon Bay and living happily ever after with a local.”
I muse on that for a moment. “I don’t know if I could live here. I enjoy the energy of the city. The Bay is nice to visit, but I think I prefer a faster pace.”
“Exactly. I wouldn’t live here full-time either,” Joy says, leaning back in her chair. She readjusts her sunglasses and gazes up at the cloudless sky. It’s a perfect day for sunbathing. “And from what I’ve seen, the townies don’t tend to leave this place. If you fell for the guy, you’d be stuck here forever.”
“There you go,” I say wryly. “One more item in the plus column for getting friend-zoned.”
Joy smiles. “For what it’s worth, it sounds like he really does like you and want to hang out with you. Maybe being friend-zoned isn’t the end of the world.”
“Maybe not,” I agree, and while I half mean it this time, it doesn’t exactly change my current situation. I’m still left in the same fling-less predicament.
I want my fling, damn it. I was genuinely looking forward to finding someone to spend the next couple of months with. Finally experiencing that summer romance I’ve always envied my friends for. I’d hoped to go into my final year of college with a fresh dose of confidence and some experience under my belt. My entire collegiate dating experience consists of the six months I spent with a guy in junior year, Mike. He was funny and interesting, but we didn’t sleep together because I wasn’t ready, and eventually he got bored of third base and bailed. This year I want a relationship that actually lasts, one that’s chock-full of passion and chemistry. I’m craving passion.
“We should pick you up someone at the bachelor auction,” Joy suggests while applying some moisturizing lip balm. She always complains that the sun dries out her lips.
“Are they seriously still doing that?”
“Oh yeah. You should go check out the events desk. I peeked at the calendar when I got here to see what’s coming up this summer, and I swear there are so many events.”
“Like what?” From the table sandwiched between our chairs, I grab the aerosol can of sunscreen and spray some on my legs. Either my sunglasses are warping the colors around me, or I’m starting to burn a little. I lift my shades and wince. Yup, burning. I can practically hear Grandma’s voice in my head lecturing me for not consistently reapplying my sunscreen.
“We just missed the regatta—that was last week. Next weekend is the charity gala, which features the bachelor auction. First week of August is the golf tournament. Beach Games at the end of the month.”
“Did I tell you I’m competing this year? Mackenzie Cabot asked me to join Team Beacon.”
“That sounds like my worst nightmare,” Joy informs me. I’m not surprised, seeing as how she’s the least athletic person I know.
“Nah, it’ll be fun. And then the grand reopening of the Beacon is the weekend after that,” I remind her. That’s the only event I’m truly excited about, although I know it’ll be bittersweet. “Grandma and I will be at the charity thing this weekend. She likes bidding in the silent auction. She’s giving me some cash to bid with since it’s for a good cause, but I doubt I’ll attend the bachelor event. It’s always a bunch of old dudes with very noticeable hair plugs.”
She laughs. “Nuh-uh, last year there were some young’uns in the mix.” She waggles her eyebrows at me. “Including your best friend Tate.”
“Really?” I ignore the way my heart skips a beat. “You think he signed up again?”
“No idea. But I vote we check it out regardless. Maybe we’ll find you a cute guy to fling with.”
“Wasn’t that today’s goal?”
“Well, yeah, but I haven’t seen any suitable candidates yet. Have you?”
“No,” I say glumly.
She slides up in her chair, readjusting her sunglasses. “Let’s take another look.”
Weekends at the Manor are always busy, so the pool area is packed, every single lounger occupied. We had to reserve ours in advance, and Joy had grumbled up a storm when she was informed there were no available cabanas to book for the day. Her family usually reserves one for three full months, but this year her parents opted out because her mom got a promotion at work and will be spending the bulk of the summer in Manhattan.
“Oooh,” she suddenly says. “I got one. Eleven o’clock, end of the bar.”
I pop my sunglasses back on to make it less obvious that we’re staring. The guy she’s homed in on does look promising. Average height, dark hair, chiseled profile. He’s decked out in shorts, a green polo, and brown Sperrys. When he turns slightly, angling away from us, my gaze lowers to his butt, because apparently I’m a butt girl now. It’s decent. And he’s at least an eight, which ought to satisfy Peyton.
“I sure could use a refill of this piña colada,” Joy says. With a grin, she waves her empty glass around.
“You’re really going to make me go up there? Haven’t we established I’m terrible at asking guys out?”
“Who’s asking him out? Just go and talk to him. See if you like him. Then you can decide if you even want to ask him out. You always make yourself needlessly anxious by assuming the outcome.”
Good point. I do tend to jump the gun a lot, assuming every cute guy I speak to is my potential boyfriend when really it’s just a person to say hello to.
“Fine.” With a brisk nod, I slide off the striped towel draped over my chair and get to my feet. I don’t bother with my shorts, just slip into my flip-flops and saunter across the pool deck. There are women here walking around in string bikinis; my one-piece is hardly scandalous. It’s high-cut and does show quite a lot of thigh, but it supports my boobs well, a rare feat for a Cassie Soul bathing suit.
When I approach, the guy is sitting on a stool laughing at something the bartender just said. The second bartender, a curly-haired woman with a deep tan, greets me with a smile. “What can I do you for?”
“Two piña coladas, please. Virgin.” I blush at the word, but it sounds less dorky than nonalcoholic. Joy and I decided against day drinking today, even though I’d probably be served here. Most of the bars in the country club turn the other way when it comes to underage clientele, provided their families are rich enough. And my family passes the wealth test, apparently.
The sound of my voice catches the guy’s attention. He gives me a sidelong look.
I crack a half smile, one of those teeny quirks of the lips that says I acknowledge his presence.
He smiles back.
And as always, his eyes drop to my chest. The curse of owning double Ds.
His gaze lingers, and now I feel self-conscious standing there in nothing but a bathing suit and pink flip-flops. There’s nowhere for me to hide. No clothing to burrow under. His perusal doesn’t feel overly creepy, only a glimmer of appreciation, but I’m still relieved when he raises his eyes.
“Hey,” he says easily. “I’m Ben.”
“Cassie.”
“Are you new here?” He flashes another smile, a tad bashful. “You must be, ’cause I thought I knew all the pretty members in this club.”
“Uh, no. I’m not new. I’m here a lot. I mean, I don’t visit for the whole summer often, but I have been here before.”
The bartender approaches with an apologetic look. “It’ll just be a few more minutes. We ran out of coconut milk. Someone’s running over to grab a fresh case from the restaurant bar.”
“That’s fine. I can wait.” I glance over my shoulder to find Joy watching us intently. Grinning impishly, she gives a little wave.
“Sit,” Ben urges, gesturing to the stool beside him. “Take a load off.”
We chat for a while, the coconut milk taking longer than a few minutes to arrive. Ben tells me he’s originally from New York but goes to Yale. He’s in his first year of law school and loving it. His family recently bought a vacation home in the Bay and this is his second summer here. When I tell him my grandparents were the previous owners of the Beacon Hotel and built it from the ground up, he’s suitably impressed. He’s got a bland sort of humor but the conversation flows easily, and when two piña coladas are finally slid in front of me, I decide I don’t want the conversation to end yet.
I lean toward an approaching waitress and ask, “Do you mind dropping this drink off to my friend? I don’t want it to get all melty.” I point across the pool deck at Joy’s lounger. “She’s the one in the red bikini.”
“No problem,” the blonde chirps, taking the tall glass, which is already dripping with condensation. Before she steps away, she gives me a warning look. Or at least I think it’s a warning? I’m not entirely sure.
When I wrinkle my forehead, her head moves, almost imperceptibly, toward my companion, who’s checking something on his phone. Is she warning me away from Ben? I must be misreading the look, but she hurries off before I can figure it out.
A few minutes later, I figure it out.
“You want to get out of here?” he suggests with a devilish gleam in his eyes, twisting his body so that our knees are now touching.
I shift in my seat, easing my knee away. “And go where?” I ask uneasily.
“My family booked a cabana here for the summer. We can hang out there. Lots of privacy…” He raises an enticing brow.
“Oh. No, it’s fine. Let’s just stay out here.” I lift my drink and take a sip. “I’m good.”
“Really? ’Cause I think you’d feel a lot better if we had some privacy.”
It’s funny how fast they transform from cool guy I’m talking to, to run, girl, run.
“Yeah, no. Like I said, I’m good. But my friend’s probably getting bored sitting there all alone. I think I’ll head back.” I start to slide off the stool.
Ben stops me by reaching out and placing a hand on my bare thigh.
Instantly, my cheeks are scorching and my palms feel damp. This stupid bathing suit. Why didn’t I put my shorts on?
Clenching my teeth, I shove his hand off and say, “Don’t.”
“What?” he protests. “I thought we were getting along.” When he notices my dark expression, he leans closer. Lowers his voice. “Look, I’m going to be honest. I think you’re hot. From the second you walked up here, I’ve been fantasizing about pulling that bathing suit off you and feasting my eyes on those tits. They’re gorgeous.”
My eyes become hot, stinging wildly, which is stupid because there’s no reason for me to cry. I’ve been objectified before, and I’ll be objectified again. That’s just the reality of it. And yet shame clamps around my throat, squeezing my windpipe so tight I have a hard time choking out words.
Luckily, someone else does it for me.
“She said no.”
Tate appears behind us. He’s wearing his club uniform, khaki shorts and a white polo with the name of the club embroidered in gold, Tate’s name stitched beneath it. His hair is tousled, probably from being out on the water all morning.
Relief trickles through me as I meet Tate’s hard blue eyes.
“Uh, yeah, get lost, Bartlett,” Ben says snidely, which tells me the two of them are already acquainted. “This is a private conversation.”
“I don’t think I’m the one Cassie would like to see go.” Tate tips his head toward me. “Isn’t that right, Cass?”
I finally find my voice. “That’s right.”
A scowl darkens Ben’s face. “Are you fucking serious right now? You’re the one who came over here, smiled at me, sat down beside me. And I’m the bad guy? Clearly you started this.”
“And I’m about to finish it if you don’t leave,” Tate snaps. “Seriously, dude. I’m getting sick of having to pry you off women who clearly don’t want you around.”
“Fuck off.” But he does get up. Ben throws a hundred-dollar bill on the bar and then stalks off without a backward look. Asshole.
“Thanks,” I tell Tate, letting out the breath I’d been holding.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine. He didn’t do anything, really. Just put his hand on my leg and told me how much he loves my boobs.” I shrug, my tone flat. “They always love my boobs.”
“Don’t do that,” Tate says softly.
“Do what?”
“Try to make light of it. Look, yes, men enjoy a nice rack. But that doesn’t give them the right to objectify you or make you feel uncomfortable. Or to lay a fucking hand on you.”
I chew the inside of my cheek. The truth is, I have a very complicated relationship with my breasts. When I was younger, they made me so self-conscious, which led to some seriously bad posture thanks to my attempts to make them appear smaller by hunching. Eventually I grew to accept my chest, although I’m still not entirely comfortable that it tends to be the first thing most people notice about me. It’s embarrassing. I mean, I get it—humans are visual creatures. It’s hard not to stare when someone has huge tits. Sometimes I even like showing mine off, wearing a tight top or a sexy dress. But Tate is right. Being objectified isn’t a joke. I shouldn’t make light of it, no matter how immune I’ve gotten over the years.
“You’re right. That wasn’t okay.” I release another breath. “He seemed really cool at the beginning.”
“I know. I’ve seen him pull the Mr. Charming act all summer. Usually he keeps it going for at least a few dates, though. I think you caught him when he was drunker than usual. The lowered inhibitions make it harder to hide the sleaze.”
“He didn’t seem that drunk,” I start, but then remember the waitress’s warning look. She’d probably been serving him all afternoon. Both bartenders had seemed well acquainted with him too. I pick up my drink and chug the rest of it. “Oh well. Another fling bites the dust.”
“Nah, ginger, you don’t want that loser. There are a million better candidates.”
I roll my eyes. “Is this the part where you offer to be my wingman again?”
“You know what? Yes. Let’s do this shit.” He flashes that dimpled smile.
“Do what?” I find myself laughing. It’s amazing how fast he’s able to cheer me up. I’m not even thinking about creepy Ben anymore.
“Let’s go out tomorrow night,” Tate urges. “I’m done at the dealership at five and then having dinner with my mom, but I can come grab you afterward. We’ll hit Joe’s Beach Bar. It’s got a balanced combo of locals and your crowd.”
“My crowd?”
“Yeah, the clones. The rich folks. There’ll be a good variety at Joe’s. I’ll help you scope out the candidates. I know practically everyone in town, so I can tell you which ones to stay away from.”
“Really. You’re going to help me find a fling.” I remain reluctant. “I don’t know.”
“Come on, what do you have to lose?”
My dignity.
My self-esteem.
“I don’t know,” I say again.
“C’mon.
“Ugh…”
“C’mon.”
“Are you just going to keep pestering me until I agree?”
“Pretty much.” His dimples make another appearance. “C’mon.”
“Oh my God. Fine.”
And that’s how the following night I find myself waiting outside Joe’s Beach Bar while Tate searches for a parking spot. The boardwalk is packed, even on a Monday night. And Joe’s is situated in a prime location, its beachfront patio a major draw for the tourist crowd. Six steps off the patio and literally you’re on the sand. I’ve always liked this place. The food is great. Super laid-back atmosphere.
“Ready?” Tate saunters up the sidewalk toward me.
“How far away did you have to park?”
“Not too bad. Beach access lot near the Soapery.”
We step to the door as a group of loud, drunk young men are exiting, one of them stumbling into us before offering a slurred apology. Tate reaches out to steady me, which places his hand at the small of my back. And since I’m wearing a cropped tee, his palm meets my bare skin.
A hot shiver runs through me.
“You okay?” he says.
“Good.” I swallow. Wishing my pulse still didn’t careen whenever we accidentally touch.
But Tate made it clear he’s not interested in flinging with me, and since I’d really like to find a cute guy to spend the summer with, I can either mope around during my remaining six weeks in the Bay and moon over Tate Bartlett—or I can try to meet someone who’s equally cool.
As a woman who’s trained herself to forever focus on the positive, I do what I always do and paste on a cheerful smile. “All right, Bartlett. The game’s afoot.”
“The game is gonna end in spectacular defeat if you keep using phrases like the game’s afoot.” He rolls his eyes. “Let’s get us some drinks, Sherlock.”
We order a couple of beers and migrate toward a standing table against the wall, which offers a view of the entire bar, including the patio. Sipping my beer, I scope out the room. Tate’s doing the same.
“How about him?” he suggests. Gives a discreet nod to our right.
I follow his gaze to a dark-haired guy with a lean frame and an attractive face. Sadly, his good looks are eclipsed by his unfortunate choice of arm ink.
“Absolutely not,” I retort.
“Is it the tattoo?”
“Of course it’s the tattoo. I’m not sure I want to date someone who loves tacos so much they permanently etch one into their flesh. Imagine how often we’d have to eat tacos for dinner?” I shake my head. “No way.”
Tate stares at me.
“What?”
His lips twitch with unrestrained laughter. “Cassie. Baby. Sweetie. I’m pretty sure that’s not the kind of taco he’s looking to commemorate.”
“What do you mean? What else—” I gasp. “Oh. Ew. No.” I glare at him. “Really? And you think he’s a viable option?”
“Why not? Means he does oral…”
“Thank you, next.”
“So picky. Won’t even consider a man who wants to worship your taco.”
I burst out laughing. He doubles over half a second later and then we’re both in hysterics. Damn it, why do I have such a good time with this guy? You wouldn’t expect Tate to be so funny. With his perpetually tousled hair and lazy smiles, that trace of a Georgia accent thrown into the mix, he gives off a slacker, surfer-boy vibe, when he’s the total opposite of that. Tate is intelligent, hard-working. And I think it speaks volumes that every single person who knows him genuinely likes him. Not many people can say that.
“How about him?” I nod toward a cute guy by the dartboards.
The bar features an entire wall exclusively for darts. It’s basically a huge wooden board riddled with so many dents, holes, and puncture marks it’s clear many a projectile has been hurled at it by intoxicated hands. The guy I point out is in the process of aiming. He grips his dart, forehead lined with intensity, when his friend sidles up to him and breaks his concentration. The guy swivels his head and snaps something. The friend, taken aback, holds up both hands and backs away like he just confronted a territorial lion.
“Are you kidding me?” Tate says. “Mr. Angry over there?”
“He wasn’t angry when I first noticed him,” I protest.
“Well, he is now and that’s a red flag. It’s fucking darts. Nobody gets that invested in darts.”
He’s right. I can’t date someone who’s so passionate about darts they nearly bite someone’s head off for interrupting.
Or is that too picky?
“Am I being too picky?” I ask in dismay.
“No. I mean, yes. Must hate darts is picky. But I also know those overcompetitive blowhard types. They’re not fun to be around.” He shrugs. “And they tend to be selfish in bed.”
“Really? Had sex with a lot of overcompetitive men, have ya?”
“No, but I’m friends with a lot of girls. They spill the tea.”
“I cannot believe you just used that expression.”
“Why? It’s legit.”
I rib him with my elbow. “Maybe you’re the one who needs pickup help if that’s the kind of lingo you’re dropping around the ladies.”
“Trust me, I do just fine.”
I have no doubt.
We spend the next little while people-watching and joking around. Despite his assurance that Joe’s draws a diverse crowd, there aren’t many prospects here for me. Mostly drunk tourists or couples. Tate goes to grab us another round of beers, and I take the opportunity to check my phone. My message thread with Peyton contains her customary one-line format.
Peyton: How’s it going?
Peyton: Is your wingman any good?
Peyton: Did we find somebody?
Peyton: They better not be a six.
Peyton: Well?
Would it kill her to send one paragraph? I have an impossible time trying to locate the silver lining in Peyton’s aggravating texting style.
Along with Peyton’s messages, I find a response from my former stepbrother to my illustration request.
Robb: Sorry for the delay! Was trying to figure out if I could squeeze it in. I just wrapped up a project at work ahead of schedule, so I’m in! Send me the story and I can come up with some concepts this week.
Yes! The children’s book is a go. I give a mental fist pump. My sisters are going to love me forever.
Before I can reply to Robb, a shadow falls over the table. I look up … and then up … and up. Because the guy who’s wandered up is a literal giant. He must be six-six, maybe even taller.
A hesitant smile touches his lips. He’s got a sweet-looking face. “Hey,” he says. “A pretty girl like you shouldn’t be sitting all alone.” Then he winces. “Shit. I’m sorry. That’s a terrible line.”
I can’t help but laugh. “I mean, it’s not the most original, but it does the job.”
“Mind if I join you? My friend kind of ditched me.” He gestures toward a booth across the room, where a young couple is eating each other’s faces off. And I’m pretty sure she has her hand down his pants. They’re either going to be kicked out any second, or soon the entire bar will witness an enthusiastic bout of public sex.
“Wow,” I remark. “They’re really going at it.”
“Yeah. I know. He does this every weekend.” The giant makes a face. “He’s the worst person to go out with.”
“And yet you keep doing it every weekend…”
“Maybe I’m hoping one day I’ll find a cute girl to keep me company.”
“Nice. That line was much better.”
“Thank God.” He gives a tentative smile and rests one forearm on the table. “I’m Landon.”
“Cassie.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Cassie.”
His shyness is slowly melting away, so of course my wingman chooses precisely that moment to return with our beers.
Landon takes one look at Tate and instantly goes on guard. “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were with someone.”
“No, no, we’re not together,” I say. “This is my friend Tate.”
“I’m her wingman,” Tate supplies.
Landon laughs, but the sound is laced with discomfort. “That’s, um, cool.”
Tate flicks up an eyebrow. “I’m also her gatekeeper.”
“You are not.” I turn to reassure Landon. “He’s not, I swear.”
“Of course I am. I’m not letting my friend leave here with anyone unless I know their intentions.” Tate crosses his arms in some macho posturing move that makes me roll my eyes. “So.” He pins Landon with a stern stare-down. “Please state your intentions.”
“Oh my God,” I groan. “Just ignore him.”
“I’m serious. Intentions. State ’em. I’m waiting.”
Landon shifts awkwardly, and he’s so big that he can’t help jarring the table. I’m surprised the liquid in our bottles doesn’t start rippling like in Jurassic Park when the T. rex walks up. With an uncertain expression, he finally pieces together a response.
“Um. I don’t know. I thought I’d buy her a drink. Is that okay? I think she’s cute, and, um…” I don’t know if it’s the word cute that causes him to lower his eyes to my boobs, or if he’s simply trying to avoid Tate’s death glare and it’s pure coincidence where his gaze lands.
Either way, it earns him a warning growl from Tate. “Eyes on me.” He points two fingers at his own eyes as if to punctuate that.
“I’m sorry.” Landon’s panicking. “I…” He takes a step away. “You know what? I think my friend’s calling me.”
Nobody is calling him, but my poor sweet giant has apparently decided that watching his friend grope some chick is better than being subjected to Tate’s outrageous interrogation.
“Cockblock,” I accuse, scowling at my wingman.
“Nah. Trust me, that’s not our guy.”
“Why not?”
“He kept apologizing for everything. And he was too nervous.”
I object to the latter. “Nervous can be endearing.”
Tate is quick to disagree. “He asked if it was okay to buy you a drink. Is that really what we want? No. We want someone who’s proactive. Someone with confidence. Dude over there is the kind of guy who asks for permission to hold your hand.” He pauses. “If you were only allowed to use one word to describe what you want from your fling this summer, what would it be?”
“Passion,” I answer without thinking, and immediately regret that decision.
The air between us shifts, growing thicker, headier. Or maybe it’s only happening on my end. Maybe I’m only imagining that his lips are slightly parted, that his blue eyes suddenly appear darker, loaded with heat. There’s no way those eyes are smoldering at me right now.
“Passion,” he echoes, his voice a bit raspy. I swear I see him gulp. Then he clears his throat and shrugs. “Are you telling me you think that guy actually fits the passion bill?”
“No,” I admit.
“Then I’ve done my wingman duty.”
We finish our second beers and order a third round, eventually drifting over to the dartboard wall to play a couple of games. After Tate beats me for a second time, the guys next to us, a pair of brothers visiting from New York, challenge us to a game. Two on two. I’m downright terrible, but luckily my counterpart is equally atrocious. Tate and his counterpart are stupidly good, hitting bullseye after bullseye while the other guy and I glumly watch our teammates outshoot us. At this point, we’re completely inconsequential to the outcome of the game. Those two are basically battling it out alone.
“We suck,” the guy informs me. They introduced themselves earlier. I can’t remember his brother’s name, but his name is Aaron. He’s tall and lean, with bright brown eyes, a great smile, and not a single pink taco tattoo.
“Oh, big time,” I agree.
Tate scores another bullseye, prompting Aaron’s brother to rub his forehead and marvel, “Damn, bro. You’re like some darts whiz kid. How often do you play?”
“Hardly ever,” Tate replies proudly. “I was born with this gift.”
I snicker from our spot on the sidelines, prompting Tate to turn and flash me a grin.
“How long have you two been together?” Aaron asks.
“Oh, we’re not together,” I reply, and I don’t miss the flicker of interest in his eyes. He really is cute. And I’m definitely picking up on some chemistry between us while we’ve been chatting.
Once he knows Tate and I aren’t a couple, Aaron gets even flirtier. After three beers, I’m feeling loose and relaxed, and find myself flirting back with very minimal nervous babbling. It’s going well, at least until Aaron’s brother takes a bathroom break and Tate comes over and interrupts us. He looks Aaron up and down, then shifts his gaze to me and lifts a brow, as if to ask, Do we like this guy?
I nod slightly, then curse myself for it because Tate views that as permission to interrogate.
“All right,” he says cheerfully, planting himself in front of Aaron. “Let’s hear it. What are your intentions with my friend?”
A faint grin appears on Aaron’s face. He dons a thoughtful look. Goes quiet for several seconds. “Hmmm. Alright. Tough question. At the moment, I’m torn between inviting her to accompany me to the carnival tomorrow night—or, and hear me out, asking her to partner up for a darts tournament, except instead of playing to see who’s best, we’d be vying for the title of America’s Worst.”
Tate nods his approval. “Two solid options. Okay. Permission granted. Carry on.” He claps Aaron on the shoulder and wanders off.
“Well?” Aaron says, directing that appealing smile my way. “You, me, and a carnival? Tomorrow night?”
“Sure,” I say shyly. “I’d love to.”