The Halloween Bet

by Knox, Abby

  We pass by the pumpkin pound cake contest, where about seven cakes total are spread out on a gingham tablecloth, each with a small ballot box for everyone to cast their votes.

  “But why pumpkin pound cake? Why not pumpkin pie?” I ask.

  She replies as if she’s telling me facts and not opinions. “Halloween is about candy and pumpkin-flavored things leading up to the pie months. November and December are the pie months.”

  “November is tomorrow,” I remind her.

  “Exactly. Not pie month for another seven hours.”

  Has this lady become more bonkers since we dated? I steal a curious glance at her as we walk on. Her long hair curls around her shoulders in drapey layers, framing a fine-boned face with plump lips. Huge eyes that dance when she talks about Halloween. She’s not cute. She’s not beautiful. She is devastating, especially as the afternoon sun casts golden rays across her luminous skin and makes her lips shimmer and her eyes sparkle.

  If she wasn’t totally bananas about the town, and about dragging me along with her for the ride to Crazyville, I might find her irresistibly kissable. I might find myself wishing she would turn to me and twine those long, curvy legs around my thighs without warning, like she used to do. Two years plus change has done nothing to diminish her overall allure. Objectively speaking.

  We stroll past the craft bazaar, where artists are hawking garden gnomes and handmade wreaths, homemade candles and soaps, and hand knit scarves. “After you close up you can come join me on the midnight ghost tour,” she says, like that’s also something I should know about.

  I scoff. “Ghost tour? Come on. This town has no ghosts.”

  She abruptly stops by a small booth with a bunch of brochures fanned out on the table. She holds one of the leaflets up for me to see.

  “Bite your tongue, sir. See?”

  “I will do no such thing,” I reply. “What are you shoving in my face?”

  She shakes it. “This. This ghost. I’ll have you know that the tourism bureau just came into ownership of the Milton House and it is definitely haunted. Maybe even two ghosts now that poor Esther died, may she rest in peace.”

  I’m embarrassed for her. “The what house? You mean the house with the lady who would sic her doberman on us if we so much as sneezed when we rode our bikes past her grass?”

  She beams. “That’s the one.”

  I shake my head. “We’re calling it ‘Milton House’ now? It sounds like one of those places with a pretentious plaque from the register of historic places.”

  “It is one of those places!” she retorts.

  “Says who?”

  “Says the National Register of Historic Places, just as soon as they approve my application.”

  I have to rub my temples.

  “And how many people do you have signed up for this so-called ghost tour?”

  She chirps, “None yet, but I just came up with the idea this morning so word hasn’t gotten around yet. I think that once people are feeling nice and festive after the scavenger hunt…”

  “Drunk,” I interject. “You mean after people get drunk.”

  “…I’m sure to have some takers.”

  I’m smiling now, but not because I’m at all interested in signing on to this lunacy. “What other stops do you have on this ghost tour?”

  She shrugs. “If you’re not interested in ghosts, then I’m not going to tell you.”

  Fine by me, as long as it’s not the empty lot down the street where a moldy old inn used to stand, and where the town’s more dotty locals insist Abraham Lincoln once slept. I need to stop asking myself why Dahlia moved back here and start asking myself why I stayed.

  “Oh, I’m interested, all right,” I tell her. “Interested in debunking all the chicanery of so-called ghost tours.”

  She juts out her luscious bottom lip, like she has no idea what she’s tempting me to do to it. “Why do you have to be such a party pooper?”

  I consider ending this argument by sucking that pouty lip right into my mouth and licking it until we both forget what we’re arguing about. “I’m not a party pooper. I’m a realist. There is no such thing as ghosts.”

  She clears her throat and thrusts out her chin. Uh oh. I know that move. She’s going to try to challenge me to something. Feats of strength, maybe? See if I can toss my shoe clear over the roof of the bar? “Blake, I’ll bet you $100 that I can make you a believer.”

  I snicker. “Hey, let’s make it more interesting than money. If you make me believe in ghosts, I will do anything you ask me to do. For the town. In perpetuity.”

  She stops abruptly and squints up at me. “Even serve on a subcommittee?”

  I grit my teeth because that sounds like the most painful punishment anyone could dole out to me. I would rather eat glass than go to a meeting. “I’ll do anything you ask,” I grit out.

  “But how will I know if I’ve actually convinced you?”

  “Am I an honest man?”

  “Yes. Brutally honest sometimes.”

  This comment makes me wince. I know exactly what she’s referring to. She’s remembering some of the things I said to her when we broke up. In fairness, we were both pretty brutal to each other.

  “OK. Then on my honor. And if I can prove to you that it’s all a bunch of baloney, I don’t have to do any stupid town things ever again.”

  She surveys me and taps her chin in thought. I take the opportunity to look away from her before I say anything that will make her mad or inadvertently volunteer my services for something else. Some services I would not mind volunteering for, especially if they involved warming her up. That sleeveless black dress she’s wearing is totally unsuitable for the weather.

  I bite the inside of my cheek as I look around and take in the scope of all the things she made happen today. I have to say, despite it being a bit over the top and a little looney, I’m impressed. She worked hard. The entire town and then some have turned out for this year’s Fall Festival, which is more than I can say about years past.

  “The thing is, proving or disproving the existence of ghosts could take a lot longer than a one-hour ghost tour,” she says.

  “Probably true.”

  “So what do you propose?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. I could spend the night?” Whoa. Did I just say that? The smell of funnel cakes and cotton candy must be going to my head.

  “Excuse me?”

  “At the supposedly haunted house.”

  She shakes her head and points in the direction of the hill, atop which sits Milton House. “I can’t let you spend the night alone. The lawyers would have a fit. Besides, I haven’t physically been inside the house yet, myself. Once we took possession, I changed the locks, but that’s all that’s been done up there. It could be dangerous.”

  And then my mouth totally runs away from my brain. “Fine, then you stay in the house with me.”

  Dahlia cocks her head to one side. “Blake.”

  Oh, but I’ve boarded the train and now I have to ride it all the way to Whackjob City. “Don’t think of it as a sleepover. It’s just friends, making a bet, on Halloween. For science,” I say.

  She squints at me, like she doesn’t quite believe my motivation but is sort of into the idea despite both of us knowing it’s a terrible one. “Well, if it’s for science. You’re on, Blake Pritchard.”

  We stand there for a second, just looking at each other like a couple of dopes.

  “Well, here we are,” Dahlia chirps, gesturing toward the row of carnival games in front of us.

  “This is ridiculous,” I huff, looking at the large dunk tank with a hunk of timber suspended over it that looks barely large enough to sit my ass on.

  Her golden eyes are so bright, I feel like they might leave a mark on me. In a way, they already have, but that’s old news.

  Perceiving my gaze on her as hesitation, she reminds me, “It’s for the kids, remember?”

  Chapter Two

  Dahlia

&nbs
p; Blake Pritchard has no idea how cute he is.

  Never did. Not even when we used to date.

  And now, two years and some later, when he walks away from me, it’s an even better view. Too bad the last time he walked away from me I was cussing him out. Not my classiest move.

  Blake mounts the steps at the back of the dunk tank and starts to unbutton his flannel shirt.

  What I should do now is walk away.

  What I should not do is think about the last time we were alone together, and how I helped him unbutton that very same shirt. Because as much fun as we had, all those good memories are intertwined with the feelings of how badly he hurt me. He broke my heart, though I wasn’t exactly an innocent party.

  And now, he’s about to pick at my scabbed-over feelings by taking off all his clothes in front of the whole town.

  Wait a minute, why is he taking off all his clothes?

  Blake already removed his flannel and undershirt while I was standing there spacing out, and it looks like he’s about to undo the fly of his jeans.

  I flail my arms to get his attention. “Wait, no. What are you doing?”

  He turns to glare at me and it does things to my body. My cheeks turn beet red, an impulse I’ve trained myself to control—almost—since moving back to town. I had to—his is the only bar that plays decent music and I can’t have him thinking I want to get back together with him.

  But now, my body doesn’t care about my carefully controlled reactions to his bare bicep—the one that grazed my boob accidentally just moments earlier. Or to his broad chest, rippled stomach, muscled back. Oh god. I have to bite my lip to keep from gasping out loud. His bare skin is golden under the autumn sun and shows a glorious layer of fuzz. The way he’s glaring at me, my body’s reaction is going to get worse in a second.

  “This is a family-friendly event. You have to keep your clothes on, Blake, as much as everyone appreciates the view.”

  He narrows his eyes at me. “I don’t want to get my clothes wet.”

  I shake my head like I’m speaking to an obstinate teenager. “You can change afterward.”

  Blake is not happy. Not that it’s easy to tell when he’s happy or mad. He basically has two expressions: mad and annoyed. “It’s laundry day. This is my last pair of clean jeans and shirt.”

  I blink. “You mean you actually have other jeans and shirts? What did you do? Buy a half dozen of the same plaid flannel shirt and change them out?”

  “No. I have one in each color.”

  Another man’s voice interrupts us. “If you two are quite finished…”

  I turn and I see Mayor Pete Hall thumping a baseball into a well-worn glove on his left hand. Under his arm is tucked a small megaphone, which he used to open the festival earlier today with a super-boring speech about his precious clock tower. It was full of unnecessary compliments toward the builder, Mason Construction.

  “Oh! Hi, Mister Mayor,” I say. “I see you brought your own baseball to throw out the first pitch!”

  Usually fairly gregarious with me, the mayor seems a bit peeved. I can’t blame him. It’s easy for Blake and me to get caught up in our banter, irrespective of what’s going on around us.

  “Let’s get on with it,” he says, “And please tell Mr. Pritchard to get dressed. This is a dunk tank for the kids, not Chippendales.”

  I grin at Mayor Hall as everyone milling around us laughs at his corny comment.

  I turn back to Blake, whose eyes shoot flaming daggers at me as he slips his t-shirt back on and tosses me his flannel.

  When I catch it, I get a whiff of booze, brass polish and the signature, undefinable masculine scent of Blake. But there is also something new I’m not expecting: wood shavings. I wonder what that’s about. And I wonder why I like it so much. I have to control myself from lifting the shirt to my nose and inhaling him into my lungs. The only reason my eyes don’t roll up into my head at his scent is that I also remember that Blake is insufferable and actively dislikes me.

  I watch as he seats himself on the wood plank over the water-filled tank. Once he’s seated, he looks over at me with a dark expression I can’t place.

  I walk over and place my palm on the plexiglass of the tank, look up at him, and give him my brightest smile. “Thank you for doing this, Blake. It shows that underneath your crotchety facade, and despite everything that’s happened between us, you’re a good egg.”

  He mutters something, but I don’t hear it. I turn around and ask the mayor if I may borrow the megaphone.

  “If I may have everyone’s attention! Blake Pritchard is in the dunk tank. I repeat! Pay a dollar and get your revenge on Blake Pritchard. All for a good cause! Come on, everyone! How many of you haven’t wanted to throw a baseball at the guy who waters down your drinks?”

  “Hey!” I hear Blake say. “I don’t water down my drinks!”

  I am on a roll. “How many of you have been tossed out of the Southpaw for asking for a Wi-Fi password? Or for wearing a flat-brimmed ball cap? Or asking for a craft beer? Or asking to turn on a game he’s not interested in? I know a lot of you want to watch this sorry son of a biscuit eater get wet!”

  By the time I’m done having my say, the dunk tank line stretches all the way back to the craft bazaar.

  I think my job here is done for now. I hand the megaphone back to the mayor and turn to give Blake a wink and a thumbs up.

  “Hey! P.T. Barnum. How long am I expected to…”

  Blake doesn’t get to finish that sentence, as the mayor’s baseball nails the target on the first try.

  Judging by the audience’s reaction, Dunk-a-Blake is going to raise a boatload of money for the children’s library.

  I have to go check on a few other things, but I turn back for a second to take a last peek. The now very wet bartender is mounting the little plank again, looking mad as hell. I can hear him using his anger to egg on everyone in line.

  This makes me happy. Yes, he was a good choice. The perfect choice.

  Chapter Three

  Blake

  Even though I had the foresight to remove my shoes before I got soaking wet, my jeans are dripping into my shoes so they still make an embarrassing squelchy sound as I make my way down the midway, looking for Dahlia. I should have made that woman go and fetch me dry clothes from somewhere, in exchange for doing her this favor.

  People stare and snicker at me. I don't care; I just want my shirt back. And then I want to go home, dry off, get back to the bar and toss that damn jack-o’-lantern in the trash.

  I find Dahlia sitting alone at the information booth for the ghost tour. She doesn’t see me coming yet because she’s busy chatting with some folks and handing out fliers.

  Something about her, something about the way she is the complete opposite way that I am around people—vulnerable and pure—makes me smile on the inside. She is always on. Always smiling, always looking like she’s ready to have fun. Gramps was the same way; it makes sense that he liked her so much. I can understand why Gramps was sad about my breakup with Dahlia. I watch people around her and it’s clear to me she makes everyone around her happy. Nobody leaves her booth without a smile on their face.

  I haven’t felt an easiness like that in over two years.

  A fleeting thought occurs to me: she’d probably raise a hell of a lot more money if she’d just open a kissing booth instead, as it looks like every guy within ten miles is hanging around her booth just to talk to her.

  Wait a minute. What am I thinking? I don’t want anyone kissing her. Especially not guys like the ones staring at her from just feet away at the ring toss game. A couple of dude bros with too much money and too much time on their hands are both checking her out and making comments to each other. And it looks as if their girlfriends are standing not five feet away.

  But what do I care what she gets up to, or who checks her out? I have no claim on her, I remind myself. That’s some weird ego shit happening in my subconscious. Caveman shit.

  And then, the ca
veman inside gets louder when I come closer and realize that Dahlia is wearing my flannel shirt. My chest feels like the mayor missed the dunk tank target and hit me in the solar plexus instead. I like her wearing my shirt. I shouldn’t like her wearing my shirt but I do. Her dress wasn’t warm enough for this weather anyway. Something inside me is pleased she’s wearing it. Maybe when I get it back, the shirt will be covered with that apple pie scent of hers.

  The twitching of my cock also cannot be ignored. Physically, chemically, primally—I’m still way into her.

  I watch her for a minute longer, people milling around me. When one group wanders away from her table, leaving her completely alone for a second, she grabs up the front of my flannel shirt and lifts it to her nose. Her eyes flutter closed.

  The arousal I’d felt a minute ago amps up by one thousand percent as I watch. I want to hug her, and then my body wants to fuck her while she’s wearing my clothes.

  Shit, where did that come from?

  I begin to back off. I don’t want to be around her while I have this mile-high boner. But then she spots me and waves me over.

  “Blake! Hi!” Slightly embarrassed at being caught wearing my flannel, she blushes and takes it off.

  “No, you don’t have to,” I start, rushing toward her.

  She flicks a dismissive hand at me. “Don’t be silly. I was holding it for you. It just became easier to put it on than set it down and lose it.”

  The bros wander over to her table from the ring toss game, their girlfriends one step behind them. One of the girls makes a spooky noise as she holds up the brochure about the ghost tour. The other girl seems on board with the idea but their boyfriends are not in to it.

  I see Dahlia’s inimitable cheerfulness falter a little. Maybe for half a second. I don’t like it.