Page 102 of Haunted Spurs

The words tumble out of me with an eagerness and enthusiasm that are definitely unusual for my standards. But... we're talking about chips. Just thinking about them makes my mouth water.

Ron stops watching the race. He turns his head toward me, looking at me with a strange, incomprehensible light in his eyes. An amused, almost enchanted glimmer.

"Who would've thought?" he murmurs.

"What?" I ask, clearing my throat and trying to rein myself in a bit, fixing my posture.

"That the terrifying Queen of Darkness was such a big fan of bagged potato chips."

"I'm a big fan of salty snacks," I defend myself, lifting my chin slightly. "I like munching on them while I write."

He smiles at me, and his smile is so... sweet? Understanding? Tender? I don't know.

All I know is that it's a strange smile.

I like it when he smiles at me like that.

"What about your favorites?" I ask quickly, shifting my gaze back to the dirt lot to force myself to stop having these thoughts.

Down on the field, the competition is a ruthless massacre. Emerson is floundering. He's coughing in the fake smoke, tripping disastrously over a tangle of iron chains hanging from the ceiling of the fake structure. The mystery cowboy, on the other hand, glides under the obstacles like a predatory shadow, totally focused on the goal.

"Cheese," Ron's warm voice answers, pulling me back to him. "But I'm also crazy about sour cream and onion. The ruffled ones. The pizza ones... I wouldn't know how to choose, to tell you the truth. They're all amazing."

I hear the rustle of his hand grabbing another small handful of popcorn. I turn back around.

Instead of bringing them to his mouth, Ron raises his hand toward my face.

My breath catches.

His blue eyes are two dark magnets as he brings a single, golden piece of popcorn to my lips.

Open, his gaze seems to whisper, even though he doesn't say a word.

I part my lips, blindly obeying. He slides the popcorn into my mouth. As he does, his rough thumb intentionally brushes against my lower lip. I feel the grit of his callus, the heat of his skin that tastes like salt and butter. My tongue darts out to catch the snack, but ends up grazing the pad of his index finger.

And... I can't stop.

I suck on it.

Ron holds his breath, his nostrils flaring imperceptibly, his eyes igniting with a dark, possessive fire.

I let him go and slowly chew the popcorn, unable to look away from his gaze.

The roar of the imaginary crowd, blasted through Aunt Tina's speakers, makes us both jump.

Down in the clearing, the mystery cowboy has just grabbed the handle of the branding iron. The rounded tip glows with a fierce red light. With two monstrous strides, he closes the distance to the post where Susan is tied.

Emerson is still halfway through the course, tangled up and defeated.

The newcomer towers over Susan. She pants—I can't tell if it's from arousal or fear.

The mystery cowboy's hand clamps down on Susan's bare thigh, squeezing it possessively.

Then his fingers seem to move. He leans in close to her face.

A predator with his prey.

And then, he lowers the glowing fake brand onto the pale skin of Susan's hip.