She lays a hand on her chest primly. “I am a rule follower at heart—”
“I very much doubt that,” I snort.
“—unless I think that rule is stupid,” she amends. Leaning down, she grabs one of the balls and shoots me a sly look.
Unexpectedly, she jumps up onto the ramp, trots over to the board and deposits the ball directly into the Jackpot hole. The smirk she sends me over her shoulder sends a zing of energy and excitement through me. With a hearty laugh, I bend down and toss her the next ball that rolls out so she can drop another into the Jackpot.
And with that, our truce is formed.
It’s actually more fun finding ways to game the machines and cheat our way to jackpots than it would have been to have a legitimate competition. Any task that involves aim is no match for our teamwork. We toss aside the mallet in Whack-a-Mole and use our hands. We shake the coin pusher until it drops half its quarters. We count the seconds in the Stop The Light game, playfully but seriously arguing over the timing until we get it perfectly. By the end of the hour, we’re both riding high on the slightly illicit feeling of cheating our way to the prize section.
She hops up on the counter next to the cash register and leans back on her hands, kicking her feet and scanning the wall of brightly colored stuffed animals hanging from hooks. “I want…” Her eyes dart across them, settling on one with a smile. She shifts forward and points. “The pink and purple dragon.”
I let myself behind the counter through the swinging door and dutifully start feeding the tickets into the return counter. We have so many I can barely hold them in one hand. After I satisfy the price, I pull down the stuffed animal and hand it to her with a flourish.
With a wide smile, she takes it in both hands, sitting it on her lap and admiring its fuzzy purple face. “I love him,” she declares, tapping the hard plastic nose. Looking up, she nods at the irregularly folded handful I’m holding. “And we still have a lot of tickets.”
“Pick something else. Looks like they keep the expensive stuff in the case,” I observe, looking down through the glass. “Want a neon pink hoverboard? Ages 12 and up.”
She snorts. “So it can break as soon as I step one foot on it? Pass.”
“A USB-powered desk aquarium?” I suggest, doing a double take as I read off the box. What in the world?
We both cringe. “Yeah, because I want a tank of water sitting next to my computer. Oh, hey, a mystery box!”
I laugh. “It’s 60,000 tickets, and it just has question marks on the label. Do we risk it? We cheated hard for these,” I wave the tickets.
She laughs. “True. Hmm… How about…” she peers down into the glass, tapping her finger above something. “That? Do we have enough tickets?”
No. But I’m not leaving this booth again—we’re done playing silly games. She’s the perfect height on the counter like that, and I need my hands on her.
I tug at the handle, but the case is locked. Figures. Even $10K doesn’t get you access to the best prizes. “Do you have a pin in your hair?”
With a cynical look, she fishes one out, causing the pieces it held back to tumble around her face. The urge to tuck them back is so hard to fight, my hand nearly cramps with it. But I just crouch down, bend the pin into a straight pick, and insert one end into the lock.
“No way that’s going to work,” she challenges, leaning forward to watch with rapt attention all the same.
I wiggle the end through until I feel the tumblers move, then bend the other end inside so the loop will act as leverage for a handle. When it clicks and turns, I send her a triumphant look and a wink. “Eventually you’ll learn to stop doubting me.”
She laughs again. “Well, excuse me. I didn’t realize I was in the presence of hot British Houdini. Do you do this often? Should I check my pockets?”
I puff up—I love how freely she tells me she thinks I’m hot, even when it’s paired with a teasing nickname. “I promise this is the first time I’ve ever broken into an arcade prize case with a bobby pin.”
“That was suspiciously precise,” she deadpans. “What’d you use last time—a nail file?”
I chuckle, absurdly pleased that she picked up on the intentional specificity. Obviously, I couldn’t claim I’ve never broken into anything.
Sliding the door aside, I reach in and retrieve the necklace she chose. It has a wide black cord with a silver heart-shaped lock hanging at the bottom. The sign on the box proudly states that it’s “Sterling Silver Plated,” which means it’ll probably turn her skin green after a few wears.
She reaches for it, but I shake my head. “I’m going to put it on you,” I say softly, decisively. I won’t be argued with about this.
Her breath hitches. Her eyes dip to the necklace, then return to meet mine, shining with something hot and eager. She nods and spins to the side, lifting her bent leg onto the glass and grabbing her hair out of the way.
Zeroed in on the long, elegant line of her neck that she just exposed, I step forward and reach around her. My fingers brush against her warm, soft skin, making her shiver slightly. After I do up the clasp, I run the backs of my knuckles against the line of her spine. I can see over her shoulder as her chest heaves, her breath speeding as excitement swells in her veins.
She turns, and it’s all I can do not to groan aloud. It’s probably meant for a child because it’s less a necklace on her and more a choker… and it’s so fucking perfect, I can hardly stand it.
She’s been so close all evening—close enough to touch—but I haven’t let myself. I know one touch and I’ll be lost. All plans will be abandoned.
