Page 46 of The Problem with Princes
“You realize you will never be able to get this time back, right? It is that dumb.”
“I’ll risk it,” he says. I think he is only continuing with it because he likes to see me riled.
I narrow my eyes at him, hoping maybe I can scare him into relenting. But he just grins at me.
“I need a pen and a piece of paper.” I pat down my rash guard shirt. “I’m fresh out of both of those things, so we may have to wait on that game.” I snap my fingers in an aw, shucks kind of way. And then it dawns on me. He keeps calling it a game, which it really isn’t. “It’s not really even a game. Maybe you have the wrong idea about this.”
He looks at Sander and motions him over. “Miss Martindale is in need of a pen and piece of paper.”
Sander withdraws a small notebook from his pocket. “Is this big enough, Miss?”
I nod reluctantly.
Sander puts a pen on the table and then tears a piece of paper from his notebook. “Is this enough? Or do you need the whole pad?”
“This will do fine. Thanks, Sander.” There is no excitement in my voice—just resignation.
He nods and goes back to his position behind Ty.
I take the paper and draw a square toward the top. Above it I write the letters MASH. I look up at him and make and X through the M, replacing it with a P.
He frowns. “Why did you change that?”
I tsk at him. “I will explain everything once it is all set up.
I make six lines on each side of the square with three small lines under the square.
I sigh and my head shakes in disgust. “This is uber lame. You’re really sure you want to do this? This is your last chance to back out.”
“Uber? I’m not familiar with the term, except as a car service.” His brow creases in thought.
“Uber…as in super or greatly.”
He nods. “Ah, so you are saying this game is super lame.”
He’s catching on. Maybe I’ll be allowed to skip this after all. I nod vigorously. “Yes. Completely lame.”
“I like lame things.” He levels his gaze at me. “You realize that making such a big deal of it is only making me want to play more.”
I grab my ice cream and run my tongue all the way around the cone, hoping I can distract him from this ill-conceived plan.
He watches, but then taps the paper. “I have high expectations now.”
I let out a fake cry. “I know. And that makes it so much worse.”
I start to make a spiral in the box I’ve drawn. “Tell me when to stop,” I tell him.
“Wait.” He puts his hand on my arm. “You said you will explain it all.”
“I will,” I say as I put the pen back where I left off.
“But how do I know when to stop?” He looks worried.
“It’s a game. It doesn’t really matter. Just say stop whenever you want to.” I keep making the spiral bigger and bigger.
He leans forward, watching the pen intently. “Stop,” he yells.
The woman behind the counter looks over at us, her hands twisting together.
