Excerpt - Take Me Home Tonight
Bridget
I’m so going to take him.
That one. The guy who just walked up to the carnival booth and took the spot next to mine.
I don’t even look his way. I’ve already seen his shoes, and shoes can tell you a lot about a person. Those shiny black wingtips, all polished and worth a few hundred bucks, tell me all I need to know.
He’s got money, and no sense. Who wears wingtips to the county fair?
The watch on his wrist—a titanium Victoire timepiece—confirms my hunch. He’s a big fish, and this woman is going to have some fun reeling him in.
Fun—exactly what I need tonight.
I consider the water gun in front of me at the carnival game, studying it like I’ve never seen it before. Delicately, I pump the trigger, then flinch like I’m surprised it shot water.
“Oh!” I say in my best high-pitched tone. “That’s so neat.”
The man next to me chuckles under his breath.
I shimmy my shoulders, so amused by how this here contraption works at the Water Gun Fun booth. I blow out a breath like I need it to steady myself, then offer nervously, “Ten bucks says I beat you.”
I steal a quick glance at the man, catching his silhouette. Strong jaw. Dark stubble. Freshly ironed dress shirt. Bet he works on Wall Street. Bet his company flew him cross country for some business deal on this coast. They probably didn’t even pay the carbon offset.
Easy prey, and I need a win after my day today. But maybe some quick fun at the fair will help me blow off some steam. If Mr. Monopoly takes my ten bucks offer.
“Or we could double down,” the man replies.
Yes! That was easy.
The carnie working this booth is busy taking someone else’s money, tucking it into a drooping apron on his waist, so I seize the chance to push this bet a little higher.
“In that case, let’s make it fifty,” I say, all happy and cheery here, and dressed for the part of a sweet, innocent gal—jean shorts, a red top with white polka dots, brown hair in a high, bouncy ponytail.
The fancy man wastes no time. “You’re on,” he says, his voice all raspy and deep—the kind you hear on a commercial and think that man has to be hot. I steal a glance, and yep—he’s double-take worthy, with that square jaw and curious eyes. I don’t need a distraction, so I don’t linger.
A few more customers settle in at their water guns, the hot evening air thick and clinging to my skin even though it’s barely spring. The guy behind the counter scans all of us, then nods. A sign he’s about to ring the starting bell.
Right as he’s pushing a button under the counter to start the game, I angle my gun as low as I can to shorten the distance to the target, then press the trigger before he even says in a monotone, “And we’re off.”
Like that, I’m a second or so ahead. With my gaze locked on the target, I aim the water gun at one of the three holes in the moving bull’s-eye, squirting it the whole time.
With racing music jingling from the booth, the mini mechanical horses in the midway game trot across the wooden background.
My cinnamon-colored plastic stallion breaks ahead.
Yes!
I don’t miss a single shot.
When my horse wins, I clasp a hand to my mouth, like I’m shocked. “I can’t believe it. I never win,” I say, lowering my hand.
“Never?” the well-dressed man next to me asks, skepticism laced through his gravelly tone.
I just shrug happily. “Must be beginner’s luck,” I say as I turn to him…and take him in properly at last.
This man’s face matches his voice all right.
His midnight black hair is short, and a little wavy.
Green eyes flicker with flecks of gold. Defined cheekbones and a chiseled jaw lined with scruff make my breath catch.
He’s lethally good-looking and completely out of place at a fair.
But he leans an elbow on the counter, like nothing bothers him, as if standing out is just par for the course.
“Oh I’m sure it’s beginner’s luck,” he says, his full lips quirking up in amusement. “And I suppose I owe you.”
The carnie clears his throat. “I hate to interrupt your meet-cute and all, lady, but do you want a stuffed giraffe or zebra? I gotta start the next game.”
I snap my gaze to the guy behind the booth, who’s hooking his thumb at the rows of stuffed animals hanging from the roof of his booth.
“I’ll take—”
“Get the zebra,” the unfairly hot man whispers to me. “No two have the same stripe pattern.”
Dropping the sweet and innocent act, I arch a brow. “I don’t think that applies to stuffed zebras.”
“But we could find out.”
We. “Presumptuous much?”
“Very much,” he replies.
The carnie huffs. He probably wants to shoot me with a water gun for taking too long.
“The giraffe, please,” I say.
He grabs the stuffed animal and thrusts it to me, then swivels his attention to the crowd of passersby who are licking melting ice cream cones and plucking fried dough bits from paper plates, barking, “Every game a winner.”
I step away from the booth, the giraffe tucked under my arm, the fancy man joining me on the midway as crowds weave past us. “Are you going to pay up or just dole out animal facts?”
“I always make good on my bets,” he says with a smile, reaching into the pocket of his slacks—seriously? Slacks at a fair?—and pulling out a crisp stack of bills, folded with a money clip.
Because of course they are.
He peels off a hundred dollar bill. Who actually carries a Benjamin? Who carries cash, period?
“Are you asking me to make change?” I raise my eyebrows, questioning.
“I’d never do such a terrible thing.” He hands it to me but keeps a tight hold on it. A game of keep-away, it seems. “But we could play the ring toss?”
“Are you backing out, Mister Fancy Pants?”
He smirks, his green eyes twinkling. “The contrary. I’m offering another bet. Fifty says I beat you.”
He really is new to this stuff. It’s adorable.
“Hate to break it to you, but no one wins the ring toss. It’s an immutable law of the carnival universe.”
His smile is too pleased. “So you do actually know your carnival games.” He pauses, as if he’s waiting for me to say something.
I blink, then laugh. “Was that a question?”
He laughs. “No. No, it was not. Just a statement of the obvious.”
With a careless shrug, I blow on my nails, polished cherry red. “When you’re good, you’re good.”
“Evidently.” He scans the midway, lined with the High Striker game, Skee-Ball, and other popular carnival games, with a Ferris wheel looming a hundred or so yards away.
Then he turns his gaze back to me. “How good though?” He sounds too amused as he asks, “Do you think you’ll have beginner’s luck there too? ”
“You’re the one who took the bet,” I point out since I’m helpful like that.
His half-smile never wavers as he hands over the bill at last. “What can I say? I’m having a good day and feeling generous.”
“Then why are you trying to earn it back?” I counter as I drop the money into my bra.
He blinks. Parts his lips. Drags a hand through his hair. Then, tears his gaze away from my chest. When he speaks, his voice is rougher than it was before. “Maybe I am hoping to lose again,” he says, his eyes locked with mine and saying something else entirely. I want to spend time with you.
A zing shoots through me and I’m momentarily disarmed. From the tingly feeling, from the fizziness, and from his crooked grin, all confident and devil-may-care.
He has no idea about my bad day, about my ex showing up at my inn to boast about his new post as chair of the Darling Springs town council—the same town council where I, unfortunately, have to present a pitch about a tourism campaign tomorrow.
Tonight though? I feel a little daring. A little wild. Like someone else entirely. I’m a woman who knows how to play games. Let’s see if this city guy is worthy.
I park a hand on my hip and shoot him a challenging stare. “Do you want to lose at darts?”
Read on…