Still. “You’re lucky I like you.”
He grinned against my neck. “I know.”
I sighed. “Just… stop calling me Goose.”
“What if I call you Iceman?”
“Iceman dies inside every time this happens.”
“That’s fair.”
His hands were under my shirt again, slow this time, almost reverent. The sunglasses were still on. Somehow, despite everything, I wasn’t stopping him.
He pulled back just enough to look at me. “You’re not going to lose that loving feeling, are you?”
I groaned. “Youhadme. And then you lost me again.”
He laughed, bright and unrepentant. “I’ll get you back.”
“You’re impossible.”
“I know.” His hands curled around my hips. “But you still haven’t said no.”
I didn’t. Not right away.
And maybe—God help me—I was starting to humDanger Zoneunder my breath.
We Have A Wiener
McCormick
I’m burrito’d on the couch in my hot dog blanket, with one hand clutching a fully loaded dog, the other clutching my beating heart as six 27-foot-long Wienermobiles line up on the track at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway.
“Look at that,” I murmur through a mouthful of brat. “God bless America.”
Stiles is on the opposite end of the couch. He’s wearing his‘Relish the Moment’shirt again—the one with the swole hot dog bench-pressing a pickle spear. I’m in my‘Ask Me About My Wiener’tee, and I will be fielding no questions tonight. I’m too emotional.
The announcer is already yelling like someone gave him three Red Bulls and a bologna sandwich.
“Welcome to the inaugural WIENIE 500—live from the Speedway! Six Oscar Mayer Wienermobiles, one track, one bun to rule them all!”
The camera pans across the starting lineup. I read the names off reverently: “New York Dog. Slaw Dog. Chili Dog. Chi Dog. Seattle Dog. And... Sonoran Dog.”
Stiles whistles. “Each one reppin’ a regional style. That’s sexy.”
“They’re doin’ the Lord’s work,” I nod. “Honestly, I shoulda been a driver.”
Stiles snorts. “You gotta have a college degree for that, Mac. They only hire recent grads. They call ‘emHotdoggers.It’s, like, a real job.”
“Swear to God?”
“Swear. Full-time gig. You drive cross-country, hand out hot dog hats, talk to kids, run the social media. Even Paul Ryan did it in college.”
I blink. “Wait—Speaker of the HousePaul Ryan?”
“Yup. Former hotdogger. Look it up.”
The engines—or whatever sound six giant sausages make—rev.
