Page 91 of Her Goal
I take a bite and the chocolate combined with marshmallow melt in my mouth. Then I say, “Wait. I thought you said you have a salty tooth.”
“It’s a seasonal thing,” she says breezily.
As I follow Leah to a picnic area where a band plays classic rock covers. I wonder if she only shows select people her soft side.
She’s wearing jeans and tall leather boots that hit below the knee, along with a cozy, cropped knit sweater. Her outfit is put together but fun. Not dressed in all black like she’s an extra at a funeral—like when she used to practically worship Hunter and dressed the same as he did.
Little did he know that hiding under all those oversized sweatshirts was a knockout figure.
Which I should not be admiring.
I recall what she looked like in her figure skating costumes. If she wore one at our lesson, I would’ve gotten another concussion from passing out on the ice.
Which I also should not be thinking about.
Or perhaps Beau was right. Could be that she’d like to be appreciated. Of course, it’s not just limited to her looks. In a world where the women I encounter are sickly sweet to me because they want to be the next picked puck bunny, I like that Leah is real, challenges me, and keeps me on my toes.
She bobs her head along to the music and then licks the gooey marshmallow on her s’mores stick.
I whisper, “You look beautiful tonight.”
She turns her head and our faces nearly collide. “What? I didn’t hear you.”
The band does an encore and I keep quiet until they wrap up their set. I finish off my s’mores on a stick as Leah continues to savor hers.
Watching her sends a live current through me. I should avoid standing water or perhaps douse myself in the dunk tank. At this rate, either way, I’m a goner.
I’m the Golden Retriever, but she’s my catnip.
Eventually, I say, “Could you stop that?”
“Stop what?”
I nudge my chin toward her s’mores on a stick.
Giving me a dirty look, she says, “You want me to stop eating the most delicious thing I’ve had in ages? I’ve been surviving on a steady diet of cheese balls and the cook’s entrée mistakes at the Fish Bowl.”
“Just don’t eat it that way.” I swallow thickly.
The corner of her lip twitches. “Then don’t watch me.”
“You have no idea what you do to me, Leah.”
As if she didn’t hear me again, she doesn’t respond, but I glimpse her cheeks and they’re bright red.
Whatever tension is between us ebbs and flows as we ride the tilt-a-whirl, smash into each other on the bumper cars, and take a spin on the massive swings.
When we get to the animal barn, Leah gets all cutesy and cuddly over the bunnies. She’s petting a white English Angora rabbit who’s wearing a bowtie.
“He’s so soft. A little tuxedo bunny.”
Ah, the bowtie makes slightly more sense. I’ll admit, I like seeing the sweet side of Leah as well as the salty. But it could be that she was giving me the prickles for another reason. But why? Is it a teenage reflex leftover from back in the day? I wouldn’t be surprised if Hunter was inexplicably jealous, so she made it her mission to be clear that she despised me.
Leah sees a sideshow exhibit that boasts of having a real mermaid and tells me about her lousy date with John Z at the zoo.
Honestly, I don’t want to hear about her dates with other guys, even though it’s my fault she went on them.
I’m glad they went sideways, not because it was unpleasant for her, but because now we’re here together and she didn’t fall madly in love with one of them.
