Kiss Me Not (Kiss Me 1)

Mostly because the first wave of people coming in were the people who’d spent their morning at church. We’d see the grandmas and the grandpas and the middle-aged folk who swore allegiance to Jesus but used the weekly Bingo night to flash their friskiness.

Which meant—oh, God, it meant that I’d be kissing wrinkled mouths for the next few hours.

I mean, it was okay. A lot of the old guys did occasionally kiss my cheek. The old women did the same. That wasn’t going to happen this year since Preston was my competition and, as a twenty-five-year-old, I wanted to kiss him over me.

I couldn’t blame the Bingo Babes if they wanted him over me, too.

Yes, it was amazing what a full night’s sleep could do. Granted, it was a full night on the sofa with Netflix going in the background, but whatever.

I put my hands on my hips and looked around the tent. There was nothing to do here, but I didn’t have anything to do anywhere else, either.

I wasn’t used to having nothing to do. I always had something to do.

Except for right now.

I smacked my lips together and sighed. Great. I could walk around the fairground and check it out now that it was all pretty much set up.

That was always fun. The part where people asked me to pass messages onto my dad… Not so much, but it was worth it to take in the magic of the fair without other people being around.

I grabbed my purse and left the tent, making sure to tie the heavy gold ropes together behind me. It was already hot, and Jesus Christ, the boob-sweat was real.

Boob-sweat was the kind of shit they needed to teach you in sex education in school.

Yes, girls, the boobs are useful.

Yes, boys, the boobs are nice to look at.

But the boob-sweat is neither useful nor nice. It’s awful and smelly and downright uncomfortable.

You’d think that Mother Nature would be nicer, given that she’s a woman and all that.

I itched under my boobs and looked around in case anyone had seen me. What? Nobody wanted to be seen rubbing at their boob sweat. It was kind of like scratching between your legs—we all did this, but we didn’t want anyone to see it.

Like peeing in relationships.

It happened, but the other person never saw it.

“That wasn’t very discreet.” Preston stepped up next to me, looking everywhere but right at me. “Boob sweat?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I replied nonchalantly. “You’re here earlier than I thought you would be.”

“It’s opening day. I had to run to the drugstore to get fifty tubes of Chapstick.”

“Why do you need so many?”

“For all the kissing I’ll be doing. Obviously.”

“You’re not going to embark of a thousand frustrating teenage make-out sessions, Preston. They’re just pecks.” I rolled my eyes and turned in the direction of the food stalls.

The rich smell of hot donuts filled the air. I swear, drool filled my mouth, and my stomach rumbled at the mere idea of holding a bag full of hot, sugary dough in my mouth.

It was my favorite part of the fair. There was every chance I’d consume my body weight in hot donuts by the end of the week.

Oh, oh, and hot dogs.

Mm, hot dogs.

Was anyone selling those yet?

“You’re thinking about food, aren’t you?” Preston nudged me with his elbow.

I jerked back and blinked hard. “No. Why do you say that?”

“Because you keep looking at the hot donut stand like it has all the answers to your problems.”

“It’s a hot donut stand. Of course it has the answers to my problems.”

“I should have known you’d say that.”

“Why? Because it’s the truth? Preston, I’m telling you right now; there isn’t a damn problem on this planet that cannot be fixed by a bag full of hot donuts.”

“Earthquakes can’t be fixed by hot donuts. Neither can roof leaks. Or burst pipes, or broken windows or—”

“All right, all right.” I reluctantly tore myself away from the hot donut stand that wasn’t even open anyway and made a mental promise to myself to stop by there before the booth opened tonight. “I get your point, but I still stand by it.”

“I figured you would. Are you hungry? I know one of the fast-food stands are open.”

“I’m starving. Are there hot dogs?”

“Are there hot dogs? Fucking hell, Halley, it’s a fair. Of course there are hot dogs.”

“What are you waiting for? Take me to the hot dogs!”

Preston laughed and pointed in the direction of it. “Come on, then. But I’m not buying one for you.”

“I didn’t ask you to buy one. I can pay two bucks for a hot dog.”

“I know, I was just saying.”

“Whatever.” I followed him across the grass to where Angela Markham was selling hot dogs out of a van. It smelled absolutely divine, and even though I’d probably have to brush my teeth three times to get rid of the smell of the fast, greasy food, I didn’t care.