“Let me,” he says, handing me the cider with the most whipped cream and clinking his cup against mine. “To fall festivals and pretty art teachers who agree to go on dates with dumb football coaches.”
“You’re not dumb,” I challenge with narrowed eyes. He practically lights up when I say that, and I can’t help but feel somewhat guilty.
I may have thought that at first.
That he was some kind of dumb jock stereotype, like he was back in high school. But that’s not the truth. Nate is a good man. He’s kind.
Someone I wish I could see a future with.
Every booth we pass, he makes a comment on it, filling the silence effortlessly. He talks about the painted birdhouses and the scarecrow contest. When we pass a woman handing out samples of some sort of dip, he tries it and regrets it thesecond he does.
“This is the worst decision I’ve ever made,” he complains, fanning his mouth.
I laugh louder than I have in a while.
We stop at one of the games, the kind where you throw a ball at bottles. “Alright,” Nate says, puffing up his chest. “Prepare to be amazed.”
“You’re going to knock them all over?”
“I sure am. Watch and learn from the master.”
He takes the ball and throws.
And misses.
I stifle a giggle behind my cup, but he turns and narrows his eyes at me. “I’m just warming up.” He tries again. This time, two bottles wobble, but they still don’t fall over. “Dammit. This is clearly rigged.”
“Clearly, Mr. football coach. Want me to try?”
He hands me the ball. “Give it your best shot.”
Somehow, I knock them all over.
He stares at the bottles, mouth open in shock. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
“Guess I’m a natural talent,” I say, sipping my cider like it’s no big deal, though I’m equally stunned. I have no athletic abilities whatsoever.
The teenager behind the counter looks up from his phone long enough for me to pick my prize, and I pick a stuffed bear that kind of resembles Nate. It’s cheesy, but this is my first date, I’m allowed to be cheesy right now.
“I’ll let you carry my prize if that helps your pride,” I offer when he’s still pouting three booths later.
He shakes his head. “No way, you’re telling everybody thatI won that for you.”
“I will not.”
“I mean, seriously,” He continues now that I’ve got him started. “You know, I was star quarterback in my day.”
I know.
“And I was defeated by the fuckin’ bottle toss.” He pulls me closer to him by my waist when we walk into a more crowded area and doesn’t let go.
My brain starts feeling a little fuzzy as his warm hand on my waist takes up all of my focus. I can feel his pinky on my bare hip—
“Hell, maybe you should coach the team,” He grumbles.
“Oh my god, Nate,” I say, laughing out loud.
I never thought I would find a man butthurt about losing a game adorable, but here we are.
