Will jumps in, blue eyes sharp, mouth tipping into something like a smile. “Looks easy enough,” he drawls, staring Adam down with a challenging look. “Fancy a race?”
Chapter Fourteen
ADAM
Jackie reels back slightly, a frown knotting her brows.
William’s smug smile grates on me. He’s been looking down his nose at me since we all met up in the little square downtown. Like I wasn’t supposed to infiltrate their little circle.
“Adam might have an advantage,” Blanca says with a sweetness that makes your teeth ache. “I imagine you grew up playing these…hillbilly sorts of games.”
“No lobsters in Minnesota,” I reply breezily, smiling back at her. “Didn’t they teach you that at Columbia?”
Over the years, I’ve learned not to react to every subtle barb once people realize I’m not one of them. Just roll with it, and eventually, they forget about it.
“Care to put that confidence to the test?” William presses.
I’ve always kept away from macho competition disguised as stupid games. But my pride can handle only so much.
I look out over the water, at the two parallel lines of floating lobster crates lashed loosely together. About twenty of them bobbing between the dock and the floating platform.
“Name your wager,” I say. “How about fifty bucks?”
“Adam—” Jackie reaches out, fingers closing around my arm, forehead creased.
“Money.” William’s mouth curls into a sneer. “So…plebeian.” Then he adds smoothly, “One way ticket back home. I’d gladly lend you my jet.”
This fucker wants to get rid of me that badly? I should teach him what happens to people who underestimate me.
Blanca claps, delighted. “This sounds like fun.”
“Blanca, don’t encourage them,” Jackie mutters through her teeth.
I extend my hand without looking away from the British prick. He straightens and shakes it, aiming for a tight grip without success. He’s far too confident for someone whose favorite sport is probably bridge.
The festival volunteer, a scrawny teen in a red T-shirt, explains the rules when our turn comes, bare toes wiggling over the edge of the wooden planks.
“You each get an empty crate and one with a live lobster in it.”
I peer at the animal’s claws, thankfully bound together with a blue rubber band.
“Crate and lobster must make it across. You fall, you swim,” he continues, his voice spiking mid-sentence. “Lobster gets into the water, you’re done.”
William watches him, arms crossed, like the kid is outlining the theory of relativity.
When he’s done, the volunteer crouches and steadies the first crate in each lane. With one foot on the solid surface, I test my footing, holding the boxes the way I used to hold heavy trays at the diner I worked at during high school.
The uneven weight might prove a challenge. It immediately makes the first crate in the line wobble.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see William flailing before he finds his balance. I lock into years of hockey muscle memory, learning to keep my balance on ice.
The teen sticks the whistle into the corner of his mouth and mumbles around the metal, “On my mark.”
I tune everything out, just like before a game, and focus on the unstable path across the water.
“Three, two, one,” the volunteer shouts.
The whistle shrieks in my left ear.
