“Laugh more,” I whisper. “Touch me more.”
His brow lifts slightly. “Careful what you request.”
“You’re the one who said believable.”
He reaches into the popcorn bucket, his arm brushing across my chest in the process. The contact is brief but heat still skitters down my spine.
“You’re flushed,” he says quietly.
“It’s ninety degrees.”
“It’s seventy-three.”
I shoot him a look. He just watches me.
“Okay,” I mutter. “Let’s rehearse.”
“Rehearse what?”
“Couple behavior.”
“You mean like this?”
His hand slides to my knee.
My breath stutters before I can stop it.
“That’s not subtle,” I manage.
“Subtle doesn’t convince Mrs. Dottie Henderson.” He squeezes once, then removes his hand.
Like he didn’t just melt half my nerve endings.
“Okay,” I say lightly. “We need inside jokes.”
“We have inside jokes.”
“New ones.”
He leans closer. “You snore.”
“I do not.”
“You absolutely do.”
“I breathe with enthusiasm.”
He laughs quietly, low in his chest, and it hits me straight in the ribs.
We settle into the performance easily after that. I steal his drink. He wipes popcorn salt from my lip with his thumb. We lean in close when we talk, like secrets matter. I forget, briefly, that it’s fake.
The game stretches on. The Miners are losing. The crowd grows restless.
Then the music changes. That cheesy, upbeat jingle that signals one thing.
“Oh no,” I mutter.
The giant screen above the outfield lights up.
