Get it together, Cate.
The first game was ring toss.
Megan was terrible at it. Enthusiastic, but terrible.
“You have to aim!” I said, demonstrating with my hands. “Like this—arc it, don’t just throw it straight.”
“Like this?” She launched a ring with the force of a major league pitcher as it sailed over the bottles, over the booth, and nearly took out a teenager holding a corndog.
“Maybe... less power,” Gabriel said diplomatically.
I tried next. My ring bounced off a bottle and landed in the dirt.
“Okay, so maybe I’m not the best teacher,” I admitted.
“May I?” Gabriel stepped up, his arm brushing mine as he moved into position.
Oh no. Oh no no no.
He was close. Too close. Close enough that I could smell whatever cologne he was wearing, something clean and expensive that probably cost more than my freshman year at culinary school.
He picked up a ring, his movements precise and controlled, and tossed it.
It landed perfectly around a bottle.
Of course it did.
“Show-off,” I muttered.
His mouth twitched again. “It’s about trajectory. Angle and velocity.”
“Right, because that’s what everyone thinks about at a carnival. Physics.”
“You don’t?”
“I think about funnel cake.”
Megan giggled. “Cate always thinks about food.”
“It’s called having priorities,” I said defensively.
Gabriel won Megan a stuffed elephant. She named it Dr. Trunk and declared it her new best friend.
We moved to the next game... balloon darts.
I was slightly better at this one. Slightly.
“You’re aiming too high,” Gabriel said, suddenly right behind me.
Jesus Christ, does this man understand personal space?
“I’m aiming exactly where I want to aim,” I said, my voice coming out higher than intended.
“You’re compensating for a drop that doesn’t exist. The darts are lighter than you think.”
“Are you seriously mansplaining carnival games right now?”
“I’m providing constructive feedback.”
