Bea sighs. “Simon. No one ever wins this game. There are actually petitions every year at city council meetings to ban him from setting up his games at any of the local festivals and carnivals. It would be more efficient for you to just make a donation to the youth sports fund.”
“But far less fun,” I reply.
“Screw that game,” another voice calls. “Screw the teddy bears too. I’ve got one that’ll really impress her.”
A different man is standing with a mallet in front of a test-your-strength booth.
“Is that one also rigged?” I ask Bea.
“I don’t like the way you’re smiling right now.”
“You should do it too. I’m certain you have far more strength than the rest of us.” I hustle her toward the booth and nod to the man holding the mallet. “Sign us up. How much for a swing?”
I buy us each three chances to hit the target hard enough to lift the weight all the way up to the bell, and I gesture for Bea to take the mallet. “Ladies first.”
“So you know how much harder you have to hit it for me to not show you up?”
“Because I have manners, Ms. Best.”
Last night, I giggled and told her I liked her willy dogs.
Manners, indeed.
Her brows lift as she smiles, as though she’s fully aware which memories are sifting back into place, and she takes the mallet.
The board is marked with measures of strength for the weight to lift above, and I’m unsurprised when Bea’s first attempt sends the weight two-thirds of the way to the bell, all the way to theYou might be able to win an arm wrestling match against a three-year-oldline.
This standard of measurement is quite judgy.
Bea shakes her head, grins, then steps back and swings the mallet even harder.
It’s fascinating watching the arc of her body. The strength in her arms and her legs. The flush of her cheeks as she smiles broader when the weight reaches nearly the ninetieth percent mark.
Though the marker is far less complimentary than it should be.
You got lucky once, but you’ll never get higher than this, the board reads.
“You’ve handled a mallet before?” I ask her.
“I help Ryker split wood at his place every fall. Great stress relief.”
“Still can’t make it hit the bell,” the gentleman running the booth says to her.
“Go bake a pie, Larry,” she replies.
He scowls at her.
She grins even broader, and—her dimples.
I fantasized about licking her dimples last night.
Did I say those things aloud, or did I keep them in my head?
“Larry here spent seven years telling everyone he made the best pies in town, but no one deserved them,” Bea tells me.
“Just swing the damn mallet, Bea,” Larry says.
“Or the right berries weren’t in season, or the flour for the crust wasn’t fresh enough at the market, or he was too busy with his day job…”
