Chapter 23 #2
Rafael’s arm was hooked comfortably around her shoulders. Sweet in theory. In practice it meant half her body was plastered to his like she’d been Velcroed there, and her nervous system was in full revolt.
Not to mention the fact that the reason they were here at all was because she’d panicked.
It had only been twenty-four hours since he’d announced them together. Dinner tonight had ended with Rafael leaning across the table, voice smooth as sin: “Let’s go to mine.”
Bea could have sworn her cervix dilated.
She knew what they were going to do at his place, and it wasn’t play Scrabble.
She wanted it. Wanted him. Her body had RSVP’d an enthusiastic yes months ago. But there was still a real chance her brain might throw a stray thought grenade mid-makeout, and she hadn’t quite figured out what to do if that happened again.
So she’d blurted something about the fair. Rafael’s eyes had cataloged every tell. Then, amused and indulgent, he’d brought her here.
A lion, escorting dessert.
It was Saturday night, and the boardwalk was packed. Families. Tourists. Students. Rafael’s bodyguards dressed down as always in polos and shorts but still built like armored trucks. One of them was eating a popsicle. The other was blending in by nodding along to the busker performing street rap.
Rafael moved easily beside her, long strides shortened to match hers. He radiated heat through his shirt, and smelled like a dream. She felt the shape of him in motion, all restrained power and control.
People noticed. Especially women. He seemed not to. His focus stayed on her, guiding her through the crowd, steering her clear of elbows and strollers with subtle shifts of his body.
But beneath that casualness, he moved like a man who knew exactly how this night would end—and knew she knew it too. This wasn’t a soft goodnight date.
The fair was a comma on her way to being…punctuated. Thoroughly, by the looks of him.
She was freaking herself out in advance, ribcage squeezed, air thin, fighting not to show it.
“Funnel cake?” she blurted. Desperately. As if fried dough could sponge up mild anxiety and pheromones.
He arched a brow but stopped at a brass-framed kiosk, ordered a large.
They sat on the short stone wall that edged the boardwalk, legs dangling above the sand. Her sandals kept slipping like they, too, were losing control of this night.
She wanted to be breezy. She was not breezy. Instead, she was preposterously aware of her underwear choice. Black. What did black even say about her level of anticipation?
He murmured something quiet and inappropriate and so very him.
She laughed, and the knot of apprehension in her chest abated the tiniest bit.
They debated seagull politics, let the summer evening melt around them.
Eventually, between the icing sugar and bird gang turf wars, the moths in her stomach finally settled.
“You know,” she said, forgetting to be self-conscious, “studies show sharing food increases attraction.”
She could feel her ancestors cringing in the afterlife.
Outstanding. Seduce him with peer-reviewed research.
But instead of laughing, he stared. Long enough for wings to start fluttering in her abdomen again. “If I were any more attracted to you, I’d be institutionalized.” Then he caught a strand of her hair, winding it around his finger like it already belonged to him.
Hair wasn’t supposed to have nerve endings. And yet her scalp tingled, her spine lost structural integrity, and her uterus whispered, Hi.
She offered him the last piece of funnel cake, hoping to pave over the awkward. “Eat.”
Instead of taking it like a normal person, he leaned in and bit it straight from her fingers. His teeth skimmed her knuckles. One hundred percent intentional. The slick rush in response was so specific and so well placed that her thighs did a full automatic clamp.
“Was that necessary?” she breathed.
“Just giving you a preview,” he said, chewing. Shameless.
“You’re a menace,” she muttered.
He didn’t deny it. Just stood, and offered her a hand up. “Let’s enjoy your detour, little Bea.”
They walked past a row of game booths, each one absurdly aesthetic. No plastic prizes, the standard here were plush giraffes in what resembled Italian tailoring.
The air rang with laughter, bell clangs, and competitive grunts. Testosterone and cotton candy. And there, in the middle of it all—glorious, fuzzy, and borderline deranged—was a three-foot plush octopus.
Bea halted. “What is that?”
Rafael followed her gaze. “…Is it wearing sunglasses?”
It was. Mirrored gold ones that made it look like it sold NFTs and had a condo in Dubai.
Bea snickered. “That’s the coolest, stupidest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“You like it?”
“I mean…yeah.” She wrinkled her nose. “Look at its uppity little face.”
“You want it.”
Something about his tone made her glance up at him. “I don’t need it, though.”
“Your gut says it’s yours.” He was already moving, and so was she, since she was once again glued to his side. “I’ll get it for you.”
“Rafael, these games are rigged,” she whispered, as if that were a secret. “They crush souls and bankrupt grandparents.”
“Even rigged games can be won.”
He stepped forward, and one of the carnies clocked him, slapping the counter. “New blood!” he shouted. “Big arms. Big wallet. Big delusion.”
The other carnie leaned back on his stool. “Welcome to the heartbreak booth. Three shots. No refunds, no mercy, no therapy included.”
“Did they just heckle you?”
Weird sales strategy—insult your customers, tell them upfront they’ll fail. But apparently, it worked. People lined up like romantics.
Rafael handed over the cash. “I want the octopus.”
“So does everyone, buddy,” the first carnie said, flashing a toothy grin.
People turned. One girl, eating churros, whispered, “He’s trying for the octopus?”
Her boyfriend responded with a firm, “Nobody gets that one.”
Rafael picked up the toy rifle like it was an extension of his arm. Flexed his fingers. Rolled his neck.
“Want to warm up first? Maybe stretch your glutes?” Bea teased.
“You mocking me, or flirting?”
“Depends what happens next.”
First shot—wide.
Second—miss.
Third—closer.
He narrowed his eyes, tilted the gun, and muttered, “They’ve calibrated it for dominant-eye drift. Bastards.”
A teenager behind them nudged his friend. “Look at his stance. He’s not even holding it right.”
“He’s missed every shot,” his friend scoffed. “This is just embarrassing.”
“Excuse you, my boyfriend was the top marksman in his unit.”
Wow. That came out loud.
The strangers stared at her. Rafael froze mid-aim. Somewhere, a tumbleweed rolled by. Probably judging her too.
“Carry on,” she mumbled. “Just felt like the public should know.”
This man brings out your inner disaster.
He turned. “Once I win, we’re adopting it.”
“We’re what?”
“We’ll raise him in a beach house,” he continued, turning back and adjusting the scope as if he were John Wick.
The crowd was invested now. Churro girl clutched her boyfriend’s arm. “He’s doing this for her. That’s so hot.”
The boyfriend replied, “For a sea plushie.”
“It shows commitment,” she argued.
Cain stood a few feet behind them, arms crossed, pretending not to be entertained. Voss loitered by the prize wall.
Miss. Miss. Hit.
Rafael handed over another bill. And another.
Bea leaned in, fingers catching his t-shirt. “You could have bought me a life-sized Squishmallow by now.”
“That’s the one you want,” he said, eyes stubborn in a way that meant unless she wrote a notarized statement of disinterest, it was already hers.
The crowd and even the carnies held their breath as Rafael lined up again. He adjusted the rifle three quarters of an inch left, ten degrees down. Breathed in like a sniper—
Hit.
Hit.
Bullseye.
The octopus dropped free.
Bea jumped. Cheers and whistles broke loose around them. The churro couple whooped like their team had just won the finals.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve got a father,” one of the carnies yelled.
Churro girl gawked. “Ugh, I’d raise a mollusc to be with that guy.”
“It’s a boy,” the other carnie confirmed solemnly, before tossing it underhand.
Rafael caught it midair. Then turned and handed it to Bea like a knight bestowing a gift on a princess.
“Thank you,” she beamed.
“Thank me properly. I just saved our son.”
A few girls actually swooned. One guy muttered, “I need to up my game.”
Bea laughed, shaky, and stood on tiptoe to press a kiss safely on his cheek. The crowd awwed. For a heartbeat, Rafael let them have the illusion of the rom-com ending.
Then shook his head, voice for her alone. “Not like that.”
He tugged her away from the crowd—off the path, behind the booth, into a narrow break between plywood that was lit only in shadow. The octopus flopped between them, sunglasses askew, about to be traumatized by his adoptive parents.
Rafael’s mouth crashed into hers. Hard. Deep. Possessive.
The boardwalk noise faded. Her knees liquefied. Her hands clawed at his shirt. He pulled back. “Time to go, little Bea.”
Her brain waved a white flag. No more delays.
She followed, straight toward surrender.