I whistle, and the photographer comes back inside the booth. “All ready for your photos?” The guy is old, the same photographer from when we were kids, except now he’s missing a few teeth and most of his hair. Somehow, he still has the bellbottom pants though.
“I can’t believe you did this,” Shelby whispers, looking over at me.
I squeeze her waist, wanting so badly to kiss her right now. “Have to document every year with my best friend.”
She smiles softly, and I get lost in her eyes. I think about twenty years from now, still tricking her into falling into my lap. The teasing. The support. The love that’s never failed, even after all these years.
God, I’ve been an idiot not to see this woman right in front of me.
“Just like that, you lovebirds,” the photographer rasps.
We both jolt, clearly having forgotten where we are. He gives us directions for a few more ridiculous poses. We’re done in fifteen minutes, assured he got some great shots of us together. Shelby trips over the bearskin rug on her way to change out of the barmaid costume. I drop the rifle to steady her.
“Oh, sweet mother of moondust,” the photographer deadpans from behind us.
We both look over in time to see that the rifle has knocked over one of the candles. A great whooshing noise fills the tent, and suddenly the bearskin is up in flames. Shelby gasps, and I lunge into action, trying to kick the bearskin out of the tent before the whole structure catches fire. I don’t manage it, though. The flap of material at the entry catches a bit of the flame. Sadly, the tent material is clearly synthetic and lights on fire like I sprayed lighter fluid on it.
“Get out!” I shout over my shoulder.
Shelby and the photographer run out the back while I stamp my feet on the rug as quickly as I can to put it out. Several guys run up and toss their drinks on the tent, slowing down the progression of the fire. People are either screaming and running away with their frightened children or running toward us with their own drinks in hand. The next few minutes unfold in slow motion, cups and buckets and ice being thrown in every direction.
Shelby presses into my side, panic clearly written all over her face.
“I’m okay, Sweetness. You okay?”
She nods, but I can feel her trembling.
The fire is put out thanks to my fellow Big Knobbers, but not before we draw quite a crowd. Billows of black smoke fill theair, and I’m pretty sure I’ll be paying for that photographer to get a new tent before the evening is over. Worse than all of that, though, is the jeering face I see right at the front of the crowd.
Shane. Shelby’s ex-boyfriend.
Firefighters run past us, making sure the fire’s totally out. Shelby’s still trembling, latched on to me like she’s scared out of her mind.Fuck. I can’t believe I fucked it up again. It was all going so well, too.
“That’s the kind of loser you’re into now, Shelbs?” Shane calls out loudly. He scoffs. “Good luck. You’re gonna need it.”
Shelby goes rigid. The shame I feel is heavier than this leather costume jacket. I move to push her behind me, to shield her from this public display of stupidity that I’m sadly the instigator of, but she stands firm. In fact, she squares her shoulders, her breasts nearly popping out of that barmaid costume. Another regret of mine. I never intended for her to be in the public eye in that thing.
Before I can think of a way out of this ridiculous situation without losing any more of my dignity or getting Shelby in any further danger, she marches away from me. Straight for Shane.
I’m so stunned, I freeze, watching the scene unfold just like everyone else around us.
“Shut your lying mouth, Shane! Dallas Gamble is three times the man you could ever be! You tried to kill me with shellfish because you’re too thoughtless to remember I’m allergic. Want to see what a real man’s made of? Look no further than my fiancé.”
Shelby’s hands go to her hips, laying into the man like Meemaw when we threaten one of her chickens. I’ve never been more proud of her.
“He’s got more class in his pinkie finger than you do in your whole worthless body. Speaking of his pinkie finger, it’s bigger than your?—”
Someone nearby whistles, drowning out the rest of that statement. “Ouch,” someone else murmurs.
I grin like an idiot and stroll over to her, leaning down to scoop her up in my arms. She’s still ranting and raving about small dicks and big trucks over my shoulder like a lioness as I walk her back to the tent to recover her clothes. As soon as we get inside what’s left of the tent and she simmers down, I bend her over my arm and kiss the hell out of her before letting her go change.
I may have fucked up another gesture, but I refuse to fuck up my relationship with Shelby. She’s a queen, and quite frankly, I don’t deserve her.
She emerges from the partition with her own clothes on. I’ve handed over all the cash I had in my wallet to the photographer and promised to come back tomorrow with more. Shelby pulls me over to a stack of hay bales just outside the row of booths where we can speak in private.
“Humiliated enough for one day? Want to go home?” I ask, dreading her answer.
Shelby just stares at me, though, and it makes me uncomfortable. Is she going to ask me to call off this whole fake engagement thing now? My head drops just thinking about her wanting to move out. I’m such a goddamn idiot. I wouldn’t blame her.
