Muffin Top

Frankie held his hand above his head to show off a long row of tickets that dangled almost all the way to the ground.

“You’ve got to be kidding.” She was here for local beer and people-watching. That was it.

Frankie just grinned at her like a kid on Christmas morning. “Who comes to a carnival and doesn’t try to knock over the milk jugs with a baseball or ride the Ferris wheel?”

“This woman,” she said.

There was nothing fun for a woman like her in going to the guess your weight booth or having the carnival worker give that little oh-boy-here-we-go huff before shoving the safety bar into her stomach and fastening the latch.

“Okay, I won’t make you actually have fun at the carnival,” he said, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her tight against him in a way that sent her pulse into overdrive. “You can watch me win you an oversized stuffed llama. You know you’re desperate to have one to put in your office back home, so it can stare disapprovingly at your clients when they come to you for help after fucking up.”

“I don’t need any backup in that department. I scare my clients enough as it is.” It was true. She’d had football players who could bench press a car go apologetic after she’d read them the riot act.

“Then Luke the Llama can lighten things up.” He stuffed the tickets into the pocket of his jeans and jerked his chin toward the line of skill game booths lining Main Street. “Come on.”

She hesitated, looking around at everyone, knowing that there would be stares, maybe a comment or two from concern-trolls about whether having those deep-fried Oreos was a good idea for someone like her. Her skin crawled with the ugly anticipation of it.

Really, it was amazing. In her office, she never had a moment of doubt, because when it came to spinning a crisis, no one did it better than she did. But back home in Antioch? That nervous and insecure fifteen-year-old she’d thought she’d ditched all those years ago came rushing to the forefront—and she hated it. Really. Hated. It.

“Okay, let’s do this,” she said.

And they did. There was the game where they had to throw the baseball to knock over the milk jugs (which they both decided were weighed down with anvils), a magnetic fishing game (where she won and declined a goldfish), and a test-your-strength hammer (Frankie’s ego grew three sizes when the metal puck went flying up the pole and slammed into the bell). And the whole time, they laughed and talked about dumb things, like which Bob’s Burgers character was the best (Louise, always Louise).

In a way, hanging out with Frankie was like hanging out with her girls. For the past few years, she, Gina, and Tess had a standing girls’ night at Paint and Sip, where they’d drink wine, catch up on one another’s lives, and paint something ridiculous—nothing could top the woolly mammoth in a hot tub. Those nights involved a lot of wine, a ton of gossip, and relaxed giggles.

Running around the carnival with Frankie while trying to beat the rigged games was like that, with the addition of extreme sexual tension.

Like right now, when she couldn’t help but notice how nice his ass looked in the shorts he was wearing and the way his dark T-shirt showed off just how broad his shoulders were as he stood in front of the Shoot the Duck booth. A shoulders girl? Her? She never had been before, but then again, she’d never spent this much time with someone like Frankie Hartigan before. It was definitely a blessing and a curse. That little talk they’d had over beers at the bar hadn’t been far from her mind since lunch. His whole “patience makes it hotter” philosophy was going to kill her.

He turned away from the lineup of paint splattered ducks, a paintball air rifle in his hand, and shook his head. “I’m from Waterbury, not the sticks of Antioch. When in the hell would I have ever shot off a gun?”

The way he said it with just a hint of teasing and the dip of his gaze to the lowish neckline of her shirt let her know just how full of shit he was. He thought he’d get her to take this game, so he could stand behind her and watch her ass instead of her gameplay like he had at the other booths. Yeah. That wasn’t going to happen.

“It’s easy,” she said, not making a move to take the air rifle from him. “You just point and shoot. Sort of like how a hose would work.”

One side of his mouth kicked up into a sexy grin. “I am familiar with those.”

Of course he took it there. She rolled her eyes at him but managed to keep the giggle his comment elicited under wraps. “A fire hose, not your personal one, you pig.”

“Don’t knock the animal who gives us the glory known as bacon.” He held up the air rifle. “Now, how do I do this? Are you sure you wouldn’t do better at this one?”