Chapter 22
TWENTY-TWO
Scarlett
“What do you feel like eating?” Brendan sneaks a look at me as we head into Sully’s Beach in his SUV. “French cuisine, Italian, or the biggest steak in this town?”
“I don’t want anything fancy tonight,” I say, looking out the window. “I want to eat my feelings.”
He bursts out laughing. “And what would that be?”
“Basically, I want slutty food.”
Brendan’s mouth quirks. “Excuse me?”
“You know, everything that’s terrible for me, but tastes like happiness wrapped in a fried shell.”
I’m being ridiculous, but I don’t care. After looking at photos of my dad when he was healthy, when cancer wasn’t stealing him little by little, I deserve some deep-fried therapy.
“Then I know just the spot,” he announces as we round the curve. Over the treetops, white lights outline a Ferris wheel glowing against the darkening sky.
“Wait.” I sit up straighter. “The carnival opened for the season?”
“Yep.” His mouth curves. “You know they have the sluttiest food in all the Carolinas.”
The carnival closes down for winter but reopens every spring for the tourist season, bringing colorful lights, rides that blink and spin against the night sky, and enough questionable food choices for a whole week of regret.
Brendan parks and we head toward the lit-up carnival entrance. The smell hits me first: sugar and grease that sends a wave of nostalgia over me.
We immediately take a right turn toward “Junk Food Alley,” and my stomach rumbles at all the options—funnel cakes, fried pickles, warm kettle corn, barbecue ribs, and even deep-fried butter.
“So what are you in the mood for?” he asks, checking out an endless row of options.
“Everything.” I’m only half joking. “I think I’ll start with a corn dog and then move to the deep-fried Oreos. After that, maybe a bloomin’ onion and then we’ll ride the Tilt-A-Whirl.”
Brendan looks at me, one eyebrow raised. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Of course I’m kidding.” I bump his shoulder with mine. “If we go on any rides, it’ll have to be something that doesn’t spin. I wouldn’t want to redecorate the carnival with my dinner.”
Brendan pays for our meal before grabbing an elephant ear for dessert, which is basically a ginormous fried doughnut dusted with enough cinnamon sugar to put someone into a diabetic coma.
We take another turn through the carnival game booths.
“What would Grandma Rosa say right now if she could see us?” I peel off a piece of the bloomin’ onion.
“Listen, she might be my grandmother, but she’d be stupid to turn down a deep-fried Oreo.” He takes a bite, eyes closing for a second. “Man, these things are delicious.”
“You started with dessert first.”
“That’s because you’re holding the corn dogs and fried onion.” He sneaks a handful of onions next. “I got stuck with all the desserts.”
“What a shame.” I take a bite of my corn dog smothered in mustard, and it’s exactly what I need. Terribly unhealthy, but tasting like childhood summers.
We walk through the carnival, weaving between families and teenagers, the dancing lights and carnival music a good distraction. For the first time all day, the weight in my chest unknots just a little.
“Hey, do you wanna play a game?” I point to a booth called “Balloon-Balooza” where you throw darts at balloons. There are dozens of giant, stuffed animals hanging from hooks in the booth’s ceiling as prizes. “That stuffed dolphin is adorable.”
Brendan raises an eyebrow. “I thought you were hungry.”
“We can do both.” I take another bite of corn dog. “And there’s no line at the balloon booth. Besides, a dolphin is basically my spirit animal.”
He watches me eat. “You always liked looking for dolphins.”
The memory of us sitting on the beach with our feet in the water feels like ages ago—me, insisting we’d see a dolphin if we just waited long enough, Brendan complaining about how long it was taking, but staying anyway.
“What do you say?” I nudge him with my elbow, putting down the food. “Think you and I can win a dolphin today?”
He smirks. “I think you’d never forgive me if we didn’t try.”
“Okay,” the carnival worker says in that bored voice of someone who’s already said this thousands of times today. “You get ten darts each. You’ll earn a hundred tickets if you hit eight out of ten balloons.”
I point at the dolphin hanging from the ceiling. “How many tickets to win that?”
“Three hundred.”
I do the math. “So you’re saying we have to get eight out of ten on three games?”
“Or however many games it takes to get to three hundred.”
Brendan rolls his eyes. “This is such a scam. Are you sure you want to do this?”
I nod. “I want that dolphin, no matter how many stupid tries it takes.”
The carnival worker lines up the darts in front of us, and I go first.
My first two darts miss wildly, sailing past the balloons like I’m trying to hit targets in the next county. My third dart hits a balloon and pops it, but the fourth misses again.
I bite my lip. I only have six darts left now. “At this rate, I’ll only win a consolation sticker.”
His gaze trails over the way I’m standing. “Haven’t you played darts before?”
“Not much.” I put down my dart. “Why? Are you judging my technique?”
“It looks like you’re facing off for a duel, instead of a dartboard.” His mouth curves a little. “Do you mind if I show you?”
“Be my guest.” I step out of the way.
He picks up a dart and puts one foot forward, facing the target at a forty-five-degree angle, his bicep flexing as he aligns his arm toward it. And then with one fluid motion, he nails the balloon.
“Wow. That was impressive.” I try not to stare, but it’s a losing battle. He looks good, no matter what he’s doing. “Where did you learn that?”
“Back when I was in the military, we used to go to this bar on Friday nights that had dartboards. We’d play every week.”
“Oh, so you were trying to pick up women with your dartboard action?” I smirk. “I’ve heard that works well.”
“Ha, no.” He shakes his head. “I was trying to avoid women.”
“Really?” I haven’t heard much about Brendan’s military days. Or his dating life since high school.
“The easiest way to avoid getting hit on was to play darts. Women would walk by and try to get our attention, but the guys I played with were too competitive. If we took our focus off the dartboard, we wouldn’t win.”
I study him, this version of Brendan I’m still learning. “I bet you won a lot of games. You’re very focused.”
He shrugs. “A few.”
“Well, don’t stop now. You’re helping me get points for that dolphin.”
“But you’re distracting me now,” he says with a grin, then hands me a dart. “And this is your round.”
I’m distracting?
I look down at the dart in my hand and try to remember how to throw it. “Hey, could you teach me your technique?”
“You sure about this, Rossi?”
“No, but I want to win.” I step up to the table again. “So, do I just sling this thing at the dartboard?”
“No, no.” He moves closer, and I catch the clean scent of his cologne. The same one I’ve been trying not to notice all week.
“It’s all about your aim,” he says, taking my arm. “First off, you’re holding the dart too low.”
He shifts my elbow higher, until it’s at a roughly ninety-degree angle. “Right about here.” Then his hand slips to my wrist. “You need to align your hand toward the target, loosening your wrist.”
“How am I supposed to keep it loose when I’m holding a dart?”
“It takes practice. You want a straight shot, but that requires positioning. Let me help you.”
He moves behind me, his chest meeting my back, and suddenly the dolphin prize is the last thing on my mind. His hand finds mine on the dart, the muscles in his arm flexing against mine as he guides my elbow into position. He’s so close I can feel the warmth of his body, his breath against my hair.
I have completely forgotten what I’m doing here.
“You need to let me guide your hand,” his voice murmurs in my ear. “Are you focused?”
No.
“Yes.”
How am I supposed to focus on anything right now?
“You’re too stiff.” His hands find my shoulders. “Your back’s tight. Loosen those shoulders and pull them down from your ears.”
His thumbs knead the knots in my back, trying to relax me, which is completely impossible when every nerve ending in my body is aware of his touch.
“That’s better,” he says, his breath brushing the back of my ear again.
I can’t see him behind me, but I can feel every place where our bodies connect—one hand resting at my waist, the other wrapped around mine.
He’s entirely focused on teaching me, while I’m entirely focused on not exploding into flames.
“Now we’ll throw the dart in one, fluid shot,” he says, then pauses. “Wait, are you holding your breath?”
“I’m breathing.” Even though I’m really not.
I’m trying desperately to focus on anything else besides him.
“Keep your arm soft so I can guide it.”
“Got it, Coach.” I can’t help the little smirk on my face as I glance back at him.
He doesn’t say anything, but his lips kick up into a grin. “Okay, on the count of three…”
His grip tightens slightly on mine. “One, two, three.”
We move together, and the dart flies exactly to its target as a blue balloon explodes with a satisfying pop.
“Yes!” I throw my hands in the air. “We did it!”
I spin around and find myself face-to-face with him, close enough I could rise on my tiptoes and kiss him.
His eyes drop to my lips and I pause, then throw my arms around him instead.
“Good job,” he murmurs in my ear.
When he lets go, he takes a small step back.
I don’t want space. I want his arms around me.
“Why don’t you try it again?” He nods at the darts. “This time on your own.”
“But you’re so good at it.” I’m not ready to lose him yet.
“You just need practice,” he says.
I don’t want to push him, so I move some of my darts toward him. “We’ll take turns. But can you show me again? So I can get it right?”
“If I must,” he teases, the tilt of his mouth telling me he’s enjoying this.
I hold up another dart, and he moves close to me again. This time, instead of stepping behind me, he just touches my hand, adjusting my arm into the right position. “You’ve got this, Rossi.”
His hand brushes my lower back in a moment of encouragement, and I launch the dart toward the balloon. It’s not quite centered, but it hits the outside edge enough to pop it.
“See?” He holds up his hand for a high five, and when our palms connect, he doesn’t let go right away.
“Okay, you’re up next.” I hand him the pile of darts. “I really want to win this dolphin.”
“We’ll do it together.” He pays the carnival worker for a ridiculous number of rounds.
We spend the next twenty minutes throwing darts and wasting an obscene amount of money. By the time we earn three hundred points, he could’ve purchased five dolphins. But when we finally nail that last target, I jump up and down.
“We did it!” I yell. “We scored the dolphin!”
He picks me up, swinging me around in a circle. “You did it,” he says in my ear, sending electricity through me.
“Thanks to your help,” I add with a soft laugh, dizzy from the spinning, and the sugar, and the way he’s touching me. “I couldn’t have done it without a good coach.”
He grins. “You only needed a little help.”
“No, I’m serious. We make a good team, you and I.” The words slip out before I think about them.
He goes quiet for a moment. “Yeah, we really do.”