Page 16 of My Return to the Walter Boys
“Oho! That’s some big talk for someone who didn’t even know what a minnow race was until a minute ago.”
“So? Bet I could still beat you.” I didn’t actually care about winning, especially since the race looked like it required more luck than skill, but the affronted look on Cole’s face was too cute to ignore. I bit my lip to keep from laughing.
“I’ll take that bet,” he said, his gaze dropping to my mouth. “What do I get when I win?”
“Eternal bragging rights?” I suggested, ignoring the way my pulse quickened.
“You’re on,” he said, then briefly stepped away to sign us up.
While we waited for our turn, I watched the ongoing races to see if there were any successful techniques I could utilize, but the fish seemed to have minds of their own. Ten minutes later, Cole and I were each handed a straw and told to get into position. A standard “Ready, set, go!” was announced, and my minnow shot off as soon as he was released. The little guy made it halfway down the trough before I even had to encourage him to keep swimming.
In the end, Cole only won because he resorted to dirty tactics. When my minnow was a foot from the end, he reached over the table and poked me in the side. The attack caught me off guard, I sucked a mouthful of water up through my straw, and while I had a coughing fit, Cole’s minnow crossed the finish line.
“No congratulations for the victor?” Cole asked after we moved out of the way so the next race could begin.
“Oh, my bad.” I glanced around to make sure no little kids were watching, then flipped him off.
A soft laugh rumbled from his throat. “I’msogoing to enjoy holding this over your head,” he said, “but do you know what would be even better?”
“Winning fair and square?” I suggested dryly.
Cole leaned in, and his lips brushed my ear. “A kiss from you,” he said, his voice low in a way that made my stomach swoop.
This close, every breath I took smelled of his cologne. It made me want to grab him by the front of his shirt and—
Goddammit.This was exactly the type of situation I’d wanted to avoid. I never should have agreed to spend time with him before we had an honest conversation, but I always made stupid decisions around Cole. He was my weak spot.
“Not happening,” I said, affecting a haughty tone and turning my nose up at him.
“You sure?” he asked but pulled away so that he was no longer in my personal space. “I promise to never mention my superior minnow racing skills again.”
“Even if I wanted to, which I don’t”—lies, lies, lies, my conscience chanted—“my mouth tastes like fish water right now.”
Cole threw back his head and laughed. When he finally got himself under control, he joined his hand with mine and pulled me back the way we came. “Let’s fix that, shall we? Can’t have you walking around with fish breath, and it’s time for the next stop on our tour, anyway.”
“Hey!” I whacked him on the arm. “I meant that there’s a nasty taste in my mouth, not that my breath smells bad.”
While we walked, Cole told me bits and pieces about his summer: the management position at Tony’s paid well, but he disliked that it meant fewer hours working on cars; he and his best friend, Nick, went on a road trip to Yellowstone and got stuck in a bison jam; and the water aerobics instructor at the pool where he lifeguarded, an almost eighty-year-old woman, slipped him her number on his last day. We reached the food trucks in less than no time, and Cole steered us toward one selling shaved iced.
“It’s not a block party unless your mouth is stained blue from a blue raspberry snow cone,” he told me.
“I’d rather have cherry,” I said to be contrary. Truthfully, I’d be happy with either flavor.
Cole groaned as we joined the end of the line. “That’s soboring.”
“It’s a classic.”
“Yeah, classically boring.”
“Blue raspberry isn’t even a real fruit,” I pointed out.
“None of this is real fruit,” he said. “It’s syrup. Why don’t you just admit you’re too chicken to walk around with a blue mouth for the rest of the night?”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re right, Cole. We can’t all be asbadassas you.”
It took us another minute to reach the front of the line and order, but once we had our snow cones in hand, I grabbed a wad of napkins and made for one of the empty picnic benches. Cole gently grabbed my elbow and steered me in the opposite direction. When we stepped past the barricades and away from the block party, I gave him a bewildered look.
“We’re leaving?” I asked, even though the answer was obvious. There was still so much I hadn’t seen, like the music tent and the rows of vendors.
