Page 116 of Tourist Trap

"Left hand red," I say with a bored tone after flicking the spinner.

"Where is it?" the guy shouts again, frantically looking for the hermit crabs June pointed out that aren't even near him. People keep pointing and whispering, and the guy clearly begins to panic.

"The timer is going—Team Surf has to make a move or forfeit the game," I say, ignoring the ruckus.

"Move," Brad yells, his face going red. "Fuck those little roaches."

The guy does, except right as he lifts his hand, he must see the hermit crab a few feet away and shrieks, falling to the ground and then scrambling up, pointing and yelling at Little Tommy, my smallest guy.

Yes, it turns out I got one boy in my grand escape plan.

"What the fuck is that?"

"The Locals win!" I yell, ignoring him, then watch as Jonah neatly grabs five of the crabs. June picks up the last one and kisses his shell before putting him back in Jonah's bucket.

They are so going to deserve a treat tonight.

* * *

“Next is the watermelon-eating contest!” the event presenter shouts some time later, after half of our team has started on the sandcastle competition on the other side of the beach. “I’ll need one team member from each team to participate!”

Miles steps forward, moving toward the table lined with six plates and large slices of watermelon.

I laugh at the irony when I see Paul also move as the chosen team member for this competition. When I look over to where Brad’s team is standing, his arms are crossed over his chest, a smug smile as if he thinks this is going to upset me or get in Miles’s head. I roll my eyes and then look to the table where Paul is glaring at me as well.

I grab Miles’s wrist and pull him in, noting his brother staring at us as I wrap my arms around his neck and pull his face down to mine, moving to my toes to kiss him.

“A good luck kiss,” I say with a smile when we break it. He looks over at the table, seeing Paul staring at us, before he looks back at me with a smile and a small shake of his head. Then, I follow him to the table to monitor as part of my job. Miles sits on the end, closest to where I’m standing, and once again, I’m surprised when I see Paul is right next to Miles’s seat.

“Surprised you could make time in your busy, rockstar schedule to help Brad out with this. I know your career is just skyrocketing,” Miles says to his brother.

I let out a snort of a laugh, and I fail at disguising it behind a cough.

“Well, I have a recent influx of cash, so I have some more flexibility,” he says as if that’s going to bother Miles. It bothersmemore than it bothers Miles, though.

“Just make sure you don’t spend it all in one place, okay buddy? Put some in your piggy bank for a rainy day, since you lost everyone who would ever be willing to help you out when you crash and burn next time,” Miles says low and easy, situating himself before his large piece of watermelon.

Paul’s face goes as red as a watermelon.

“I’m about to make it big, so I’m not going to need any of you.” He shifts before his own plate, but I can see the irritation written on his face. “When I’m famous, don’t bother trying to get back on my good side.”

With that, Miles lets out a bark of laughter, and I stifle one of my own before the judge starts telling them the rules: no using any hands, the first person to have mostly white on their watermelon wins, and that will be at the discretion of the judge.

“Go!” the judge shouts, and six heads dip, vigorously eating the fruit.

I watch Miles and instantly wonder to myself,should this be hot?Because as I watch himdevourthe fruit, I feel a little warm. Then I look at the contestant next to him and fight a laugh as I watch Paul chase the slick watermelon around, slipping and sliding. In contrast, Miles takes bite after bite, quickly eating the watermelon.

“Looks like you’re having a hard time over there, Paul,” I say, crossing my arms on my chest. “You always did have a hard time finding the right spots.” I almost regret my jab when Miles coughs, slowing him down, but it’s a momentary lapse before he continues on.

But Paul stops altogether, looking at me with a glare. I just shrug.

A moment later, Miles stands up and raises a hand, a judge coming over to check his rind before declaring him the winner. The crowd cheers, and Paul comes in dead last, not surprisingly.

“Once again, it’s clear which Miller brother is the best,” I say, giggling into the sticky kiss Miles gives me. When it breaks, I wipe the mess from his mustache and smile at him.

FORTY

CLAIRE

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