“No bumping!” yells some teenager who works there. Blake is shaking his head. “You play dirty!” he shouts.
“Ultimate champion,” I yell back and take off.
Now I’m in the lead, but I can sense him right behind me. I take a corner too fast, spin out, and Blake whizzes by me with one fist in the air.
All I can do is laugh. I realize I’ve been working so much lately that I needed this. It’s the most fun I’ve had in a long time.
Blake wins the race and when I step out of the cart, I say, “I let you have that one.”
“Uh-huh. Your little stunt on the last turn was totally intentional.” He’s being sarcastic.
I smile, shrug, and bat my stupid eyelashes. “Whatever you say.”
“Well, now we have some options,” he says as we return our helmets to the front.
“I’m intrigued.”
“Do you like banana splits?”
“Is that a real question?” I say.
“Yes,” he deadpans.
“Who doesn’t?”
“Do you like bourbon?”
I cock my head to the side. “Yes, I think.”
“I’m taking you to a place on Peachtree. It’s not fancy.”
As though I’d care. “What is this place you speak of?”
“The name doesn’t matter. All that matters is that when you order a banana split, they give you a free shot of bourbon.”
“Sounds like heaven.”
He pulls me along. “It is. Let’s go.”
On our walk there, Blake notices that it’s a little chilly and offers me his jacket, but I decline. “I left my sweater in your car,” I say.
“No worries, we’ll get it.”
But we don’t. Instead, we go straight to the bar, and end up adding a few extra bourbons to our check after polishing off two banana splits. When Blake wipes whipped cream from my bottom lip, I practically fall off my chair.
“Wow, steady now.”
I giggle. I’m feeling very tipsy. “I’m okay.” He’s staring at my mouth. I can feel our bodies getting closer and closer to each other. We’re about to kiss. Oh. My. God. We’re about to kiss. I pull away. This is wrong. I want him so badly—but I won’t take him away from Caroline.
“What was that?” I say. I would’ve never asked that question if I was sober.
He’s shaking his head. “I don’t know.” He looks up toward our waiter. “Check, please,” he says. He seems upset, but I don’t know if it’s toward me.
“Are you mad?” I ask him.
“No, it’s just getting late. I think I should get you home.” He won’t make eye contact with me.
“Okay,” I say.
