Page 135 of Just One Little Bargain

Her first throw goes wide. The second clips the top can and sends it spinning off the back. The third knocks over two more, but the bottom row holds firm, weighted in place.

“Completely rigged,” she announces. “Evie, your turn.”

“I’m not spending money on this.”

“I already paid for three sets of throws, babe. You’re going.”

I step up and knock down four out of six, which is genuinely good. The remaining two sit there in their bottom-weighted smugness while the carnie offers me a consolation prize.

“This is why I said no,” I tell Maddie.

Milo’s been watching all of this from behind me with his arms crossed and a furrow between his brows.

“The game is structurally dishonest,” he says.

“Yes.”

“The weight distribution is intentionally uneven.”

“Welcome to the American carnival.” I shrug.

“One more round.” He steps in behind me, and the heat of him reaches me before his hands do. His chest settles against my back as one hand closes around my hip and the other nudges my elbow higher.

The cans blur at the edge of my vision. All I can register is the weight of his palm at my waist, and the slow breath warming the shell of my ear.

“You could just throw them yourself,” Maddie points out.

“This is more fun.”

The answer comes easily, but when I shift my feet and let my ass press back against him, his fingers clamp at my hip.

“Problem?” I ask, pressing back against him again.

“You’re doing that on purpose.” His breath leaves him in a rough exhale.

“You were the one who insisted on correcting my stance.”

“And now I’m reconsidering how close supervision needs to be.”

His grip tightens at my hip and he rolls forward, pressing the hard length of him against my ass. The ball slips in my hand, taking the next retort with it.

“Focus,” he murmurs.

“You first.”

His smile brushes my hair. “I’m very focused.”

Instead of turning around and doing something that’ll get us banned from the game stall, I throw. The ball hits the bottom-left can at an angle that should ricochet sideways. Instead, the entire structure collapses.

The carnie stares at the empty platform, then at the cans scattered across the floor, and finally at us.

“That’s . . . a winner,” he says, already reaching for the top-shelf prizes.

I turn within the circle of Milo’s arms and peer up at him. Behind him, one of the fallen cans is still spinning in place despite the complete absence of wind.

“I know what you did,” I whisper.

“You were perfect.”