“Neither do I,” I reply. Okay, maybe I don’t like this game or having an opponent who’s competitive. It’s dumb. I can see he wants to take his flirty behavior up a notch, but something is holding him back and I’m not pushing him forward. I’ve been there, done that, and it’s not happening in a new town where everyone probably knows everyone else’s business. It can only lead to bad things.
I turn around and continue walking toward the festival’s opened gates. With a foot off the curb, my good arm is yanked backwards and it scares the ever living shit out of me. “What the hell?”
“Do you look before you cross a street?” he snaps.
A car flies by. “I didn’t think there were cars in this town,” I tell him. I’m making that up. I’ve seen them, but I didn’t see any headlights, so I didn’t think to look. It’s not like Boston, where you can’t cross the street without putting your life at risk.
“Funny. The rules still apply here. Look both ways before crossing, Scarlett.”
“Thank you,” I lament. I look both ways and cross over to the festival’s side. “Where do you think everyone is?”
“At any one of these fifty vendor booths,” he responds.
“Well, we better start looking,” I tell him. I could just call Benny, but I’m stalling for the sake of curiosity about Austin.
“Before we find them, you need taste one ice cream of my choice,” he says.
“Okay, then you have to taste one by my choice,” I reply quickly. I guess we’re starting a new game now.
“Deal,” he agrees.
He looks down the row we’re standing in front and a devilish smile perks at the corner of his lips. Obviously, he knows exactly what he’s searching for. “There it is.” He takes my hand and pulls me forward. My pulse races in every sensitive spot on my body because he doesn’t just take my hand, he intertwines his fingers with mine, and it dawns on me that I don’t recall the last time a man has held my hand, as silly and juvenile as it is. It seems clear that Austin is on a mission to accomplish something, and I’m still busy looking at our hands. The sight of the littlest bit of affection makes my chest hurt, and I don’t know why. Maybe I do know why, but I’d rather avoid that thought.
I consider pulling myself from the hold he has on me, but I don’t. I don’t think I want him to let go.
While I’m lost in thought about two hands melting together, we stop, and laughter belts out of him. “Here we are.”
I look up at the sign and hold back a gag. “Um, no. Absolutely not.”
“You’re a tough cookie. You can handle it.”
“I am not taking a bite of Grasshopper Mint ice cream. Are you out of your mind?”
“No. Here, I’ll even go first.” He’s kidding. He’s not eating that crap. “Two please.”
“One,” I correct him.
“You’re not going to let me sample it too?” he asks, his voice going all honeyed and sweet. Oh, please. “No, you can sample, but I’m not.”
“Two,” he says again with a stiff nod to the vendor.
For crying out loud. I am not eating that shit.
The vendor hands Austin two little cups with spoons, and Austin hands one of the cups to me, but I don’t take it. “Scarlett, it’s going to melt and I’d like to try mine.”
Since he wants to eat his, and he’s being so persistent, I take it, but I have no intention of putting my tongue on that spoon. He’s full of it. He’s not taking a bite.
I watch as he digs his spoon in and takes out probably most, if not all the contents, from the miniature cup. The look on his face doesn’t change at all as he shoves the spoon full of ice cream into his mouth. Oh my God. I’m going to be sick just watching him. “What is wrong with you?”
“Mmm, mmm, mmm,” he moans.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Austin
Aw, bull-crap. This shit ain’t goin’ down the hatch. There she is looking at me, just waiting for me to gag this mouthful up. I can’t let that happen.
She’s smiling because she knows I still haven’t swallowed this bite and it’s getting worse by the second since the ice cream part is melting, and the grasshopper chunk isn’t. Just do it.
I push the thing down, imagining that I feel it bounce from side to side in my esophagus until it hits the pit of my hollow stomach. I think I might be sweating.
“That was lip-smackin’ good,” I tell her as a bitter aftertaste fills my mouth.
“Your turn,” I tell her. I’m feeling slightly bad, maybe guilty, but I’ll only feel bad if she actually goes through with it. I don’t think she has the balls to, though. She was already dead set against it, so I doubt me taking one for the team has any effect on her decision.
“Fine,” she says. No way. I’m not buying it.
She struggles with the spoon because she can’t use her other hand with the slight bit of mobility she’s been left with. “Want help?” If she didn’t hear the guilt peppered through my question, she might actually go through with this.
“Do you mind?” she asks.
“Do you want the spoon or the cup?”
“I’ll hold the cup,” she says.
She wants me to spoon feed her the grasshopper. I take the spoon and scoop it into the cup she’s holding. “Ready?” I ask.
I can’t do this to her.
“Yup,” she answers right away and opens her mouth enough to feed her the spoonful.
I extend my arm out, just to the point where the spoon is hovering between her lips. I hold it there, debating whether to let her off the hook or make her suffer. I just can’t do this to her, though. “Okay, you know what—” She wraps her lips around the spoon and pretty much inhales the contents. She swallows it almost immediately and licks her lips. “You’re right, not bad.”
She’s kidding. She’s going to puke in like five seconds. “Do you need a chaser?” I ask.
“No, why?” She looks at me like I’m crazy.
“Just askin’.”
“My turn,” she says. “I need that pamphlet thing with the map and ice cream booth directory.” I’m still in shock over what I just witnessed, and Scarlett’s looking for the small stand full of maps. She finds it and runs over to grab one, then returns with intensity in her eyes. I watch as she studies the list, and the only thing I’m hoping right now is that there is nothing worse than Grasshopper Mint ice cream. “Okay, got it. It’s in the third row.” She counts a few boxes in on the map. “Fourth table in.”
“All right, bruiser, what’s it called?”
“You’ll see,” she says with a jiggle of her brows.
We head in the direction of the next aisle over, and my mind is churning on whether I should grab her hand again. It wouldn’t be to get where we’re going any faster, and that was my initial intention when we first got here. However, after a moment of holding her hand, my thoughts sort of took a sharp turn into a different direction—a direction of attraction rather than the excitement of this daredevil game we’re playing.
“You’re walking too slow. Speed it up,” she says. Scarlett, the bruiser who can clearly see eye to eye with me like no one I’ve met before grabs my hand and pulls me to move faster. This chick has me melting—and aching—because part of me is confident I am not good enough to get any closer to her than I currently am. The other part of me is praying that the angels above are keeping me in their sights and wanting good things for my poor lonely soul.
Scarlett’s hand is half the size of mine but she’s got a grip that shows confidence, a sexy amount of confidence. It’s oozing from her, and I love it.
“Here,” she says as we arrive at the booth.
“No, no way. Scarlett, I don’t think you know what this is.”
“Oh, I do. There was a short description on the pamphlet.”
“Scarlett, I know you’re all about payback, but this isn’t a good idea.”
“Hi,” she says to the vendor. “Could I have two samples of your Cold Sweat?”
The
guy looks between the two of us and snickers. “Sure, but I’m going to need you to sign these waivers first,” he says.
“You really have to make us sign something?” she asks him.
“Yeah, I’m required to, due to the ingredients. Some of the peppers can cause a bad reaction if you have a sensitive stomach.”
“Scarlett, I’m sure there’s another flavor you can choose from that list. There’s no need to make ourselves sick tonight. Ten different types of hot peppers? Maybe peppers are different down here than you’re used to up north because there’s no playing around when it comes to spiciness here.”
“Nope, I’m in the mood for something hhhottt.” She smiles and chomps her teeth. She is fucking crazy.
“You realize you’re out of your goddamn mind, girl, don’t you?”
“I do.”
The vendor hands over the two cups, and I take them since she can’t. “You’re going first. You know that, right?” I say.
“Of course,” she says as she signs her name. I follow and sign mine too, reading the risks and side effects that include vomiting, gastrointestinal burns, and intense stomach cramps.
“Should we get water?” I ask.
“I don’t know, do you have balls?”
My mouth falls open. “Did you just ask me that?”
“I did.”
“Women don’t talk like that down here, darlin’,” I tell her. “Your mouth would be considered offensive by some of your neighbors.”
“Good,” she says, proudly.
“You ain’t gonna survive down here.”
“Sure, I will,” she says with a wink. “Feed me, farm boy.”
I look around because I’m now wondering who else is bearing witness to this ridiculous display. “Fine,” I tell her. I take a spoonful of the crap that I can smell from a foot away and aim toward her mouth. Her lips are like these perfectly plump bows, and she runs the tip of her tongue over her top lip, making the center glisten from the park light we’re beneath. I think I’d rather kiss her than shove this hot-as-hell, heaping spoonful of death into her mouth.
I feel like this might be unethical, knowing it can hurt her, but the little I put on the spoon should be just enough to give her a taste without making her sick.
I place the spoon into her mouth, waiting for the reaction to run through her beautiful eyes first. I wonder how she’ll pull this bravery off. We’re known for hot foods down here, hotter than she might be used to up north like I tried to warn her. I’ve had my fair share of uneatable chili, but I just wonder if she was trying to call my bluff.
Her eyes widen and her hand claps over her lips. “Oh crp” she mutters. “Wtr” She’s looking around for a place to get water even though I offered just a minute ago. “Firrre.” Water isn’t going to do a thing for her.
I drop the cups into the trash bin beside us. “Over here,” I tell her, trying not to laugh. At first, I look for a water stand or a drink cart of some sort, but nothing comes into view. Serves her right, trying to show off. She thinks she can come down here and act all big and tough. Well, this ought to teach her.
We end up behind the ticket booth in search for something to drink and a storm of weakness comes over me as the glow from the lights disappear behind us. I press my body into hers, pushing Scarlett up against the gate enclosing the festival. I wrap my arm around her back, feeling a weak arch in her spine comply with my grip. This is going to hurt me as much as it’s hurting her, but I’ll be damned if I waste one more second.
I drive my lips into hers with force, inhaling the spice mixed with her sweetness. Her mouth complies, falling open as if instinctual. I skate my tongue over hers, taking on the heat she was trying to cool off. I feel the burn, and my strength pouring out of me. She feels limp in my arms which urges me to use more force in holding her against the fence. I cradle the back of her head, weaving each of my fingers through her silky hair, one finger at a time, slowly, before running my fingertips down to her back.
A moan whimpers in her throat and I have the urge to reply with the same hum, but I can hardly breathe enough to create sound. She fits in my arms like she was meant to be here, but fate doesn’t work like that. Two people don’t just fit together; they either blend like compatible flavors or cause a futile combination that leaves a lingering aftertaste, potentially destroying any desire to try something good again.
I pull away because I’m on fire now too, but the fire is spreading through me like I’m made of paper. “Shit, Scarlett, that was hottest damn kiss I’ve ever had.”
“I—” she gasps. “Wow.” She’s breathless, her lips are still parted and she’s looking at me like I just told her everything she’s ever known has been a lie. “Holy shit.”
“Are you okay,” I ask, sounding a little out of breath too.
“No, not even a little.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“I’ve never been kissed like that,” she says. “You stole the heat but left the warmth. I—”
“That was some good ice cream,” I tell her.
“Yeah, yeah, I have a cold sweat but isn’t from the ice cream. I—”
I read between her lines and cup my hands around her face, taking her lips back as my own. I touch my tongue to her bottom lip, tasting more hints of the spice. It burns, but like any addiction, I want more.
She breaks away this time. “Austin, I can hardly stand.”
“I’ve got ya.”
“You have a little more spice in you than I gave you credit for,” I tell her. “I’m impressed.”
“And you have a bit more sweetness that I thought,” she says. Our words are soft and more like whispers that seem to be stolen by the breeze whistling through the tree limbs above us.
I press my lips to hers once more, just for a small second, before I have to end the moment and take her to find us some drinks. Personally, I’d rather suffer from this lingering burn for as long as possible.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Scarlett
Two Weeks Later
Not only is it way easier getting to work on time when I live forty seconds away, but all the guests here like to have long conversations when they pass by the desk. It makes my shifts go by quickly, which is nice.
“Good afternoon, sweet pea!” The voice is unfamiliar but vaguely familiar at the same time. I look up, finding the girl I met the first night I arrived here in Blytheville. Crap, what is her name. It’s two words, I remember that much. Lori … that was the first name. Laurie-Anne? No. Laurie-Jenn? No, that wasn’t it.
“Good morning!” That’ll have to do.
“It’s me, Laurie-Cate. Remember, we met a few weeks ago?”
Laurie-Cate, right. “Of course, I remember. How have you been? Are your parents enjoying their stay?”
“Oh, yes, yes, of course. However, I reckon they have a wee bit of a problem, but they couldn’t figure out how to come all the way down here to the front desk to tell you.”
“Oh no, what’s going on?” I ask her. While I’m talking, I pull up all guest records, but I have no clue what either of her parents’ names are. “What is the last name?”
“Gilly; G-i-l-l-y,” she spells out. “Daddy said the shower won’t turn on and the faucet is leaking brown, dirty water. Would you believe they’ve gone a whole three days without bathing or calling me for help? Aside from the fact that they could have dragged their ole’ behinds down here themselves and told you, they know I live just down the road.”
“Oh geez,” I exclaim. “Parents know how to push our buttons, huh?”
“They sure do, Scarlett. Are your parents old and naggy too?” Laurie-Cate asks.
“Yes, they are, which is why I still haven’t told them I moved down here yet.”
“Heavens to Betsy, how have you managed to keep that from them all this time?” She places her hand on her heart as if she’s shocked and appalled that I could such a thing. Except, she doesn’t know Dad, and probably wouldn’t understand.
&n
bsp; “Oh, they’re so wrapped up in their own lives. We just do our own things.” I’m an utter embarrassment to Dad who would rather cut me out of the family than let anyone know I didn’t follow in his career path.
“Oh goodness, that’s just terrible!” she says. “How could anyone forget about their daughter?”
“Well, seeing as I’m twenty-nine now, according to my dad, I should be a high-level executive in one of the city’s corporate high-rise buildings, but here I am. The rest is just dirt swept under the rug. No biggie.”
“At twenty-nine?” she questions. “You’re a lady. You have far better things to do with your time than wear a hideous pant suit and answer to a bunch of crabby old men.”
I laugh quietly. “Oh, it’s not like that up north. Women are in charge almost as much as the men are. We push the whole gender equality thing.” I honestly feel like I’m talking to a woman back in the forties. “What do most women do around here?”
She huffs an aggravated laugh. “Well, most women in their mid-twenties are typically expected to be married, and at least working on baby number one.” I know my eyes are bugging out right now.
“Expected?”
She shrugs. “It’s kind of the way of life around this neck of the woods. We stay at home and raise babies, and if we live on or near farms, we help manage some of that on the side too.”
“I’m still trying to wrap my head around this lifestyle. I can’t lie,” I tell her.
“Well, between you, me, and the lamppost, I’m jealous that you’re making your own money. You have something to work toward and can feel accomplished. As for me, I’m not married yet. I don’t even have a boyfriend, and according to my parents, I must have committed some kind of horrible crime seeing as I’m clearly being ‘punished by the devil.’”
“That’s insane,” I tell her. “Want me to talk to your parents?” I’m joking, but I’d be happy to tell them what’s what. What is with people?
“Oh goodness gracious, no. You’d lose your job.” She waves me off. “Thank you for your kind offer, though.”
“So,” she says while tracing her finger up and down the counter. “You said that man you’re living with is not your boyfriend, right?”
Man Handler (Man Cave - A Standalone Collection Book 3) Page 12
