“He gets it, Bea. Swing the mallet and move on.”
“A little belief in your contestants would go a long way toward making people like you more,” Bea replies. “Maybe redo your board with some motivational messages instead of trash talk.”
“Trash talk is motivational.”
“And yet you’re getting all pissy about me trash-talking your pies… Interesting double standard, don’t you think, Simon?”
“I believe you’ll hit the bell, Bea,” I reply.
She grins at me, and once again, my lightheadedness goes lightheaded.
So.
Fucking.
Lovely.
Full of mischief too.
You can tell by the way she swings that mallet as though she’s the star of one of those YouTube channels dedicated solely to wood splitting.
And it’s zero surprise at all when the weight lifts all the way to the bell, ringing out loudly for all of the carnival goers to hear.
She drops the mallet and holds her arms wide in victory as she looks at me. “Go ahead. Beat that.”
I swoop her up and spin her around. “Well done, Bea! That was incredible.”
And then I remember myself.
Standing here, in the middle of a public carnival, with people watching.
I set her down, and she stares up at me, smile gone, a look of singular concentration crossing her face.
I clear my throat. “Lovely swing. Congratulations, darling. You’ve quite the talent with swinging a mallet.”
A mechanical voice cuts off whatever Bea was about to say. “Standing on the target is cheating. Prize forfeited.”
Pinky makes a low growl. “You got five people recording this on their phones.”
Five people.
Phones.
And I’ve just swung her in a circle as though we’re friends.
Better than friends.
Remember your surroundings, you arsehole.
The rumors will circulate that we’re dating.
When I make a point to not date anyone.
My publicist will need a call.
Immediately.
“Here’s your prize, Bea,” Larry grumbles. He holds the mallet out to me. “You still wanna do this?”
