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“Day and night. And then some. This seems like the most important detail.”
“The most important detail is that you’re a big softy.”
He boasts his chest. “I am not a big softy.”
“You’re the biggest softy I’ve ever met. You wouldn’t hurt a fly. You don’t even like to fight. And you’d never throw the first punch.” I poke him in the chest, immediately recalling how strong and hard, and wonderful he feels.
He catches my wrist. “You better not start spreading these softy rumors about me.” The strained lines over his face relax.
“Maybe if you tell me what magazine I can find this Lone Rider column, I may just keep your deep, dark secret.”
“Maybe I’ll tell you tonight when we’re settled in the trailer.” He winks. “Strictly as friends.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from saying differently.
“You want to grab a graveyard pudding cup before we head to the trailer?”
With his nod, we set off back to the barbecue. I’ll be honest; I’m scared to go back to the trailer with him. But not for the reasons he assumed.
I like him.
He likes me.
We’re phenomenal together, and what’s keeping us from ending up naked together? Certainly not the alcohol we’ve consumed. I’m not drunk, but I’m not sober, either. Half cut, for sure.
We eat our graveyard pudding cups and watch the local band when I catch sight of the trio making their grand entrance. And grand it is.
I elbow Johnny. “Witches to bitches.”
“Rude.”
“Not you, them.” I point at the trio.
Hattie, Birdie, and Trixie have swapped their Sanderson sister outfits to dress like biker babes. Leather and studs. Hattie is wearing a bulky leather jacket, while Trixie and Birdie have matching red bandannas tied around their heads.
“What are they doing?”
“Playing matchmakers,” I snarl as their gazes land on us.
They wander over to us, juggling extra martini glasses in their hands. Very fancy for Boo Fest.
“One bloody martini for you.” Birdie’s bracelets jangle when she hands me a martini glass.
“And one for you.” Trixie loads one off on Johnny before she squeezes his bicep with a small meow.
I sniff the blood-red liquid garnished with blackberries and a mint sprig. “You lace these?”
“We don’t break the law.” Hattie’s mouth is a thin line. “No alcohol beyond the beer tent.”
I could argue the many ways they’re always breaking the law. Sneaking into people’s houses roofying couple’s food or drinks.
“I’m not referring to alcohol.” My hand shoots up to stop Johnny from drinking the martini.
The glass presses against his lower lip. “What?”
“I can smell the cinnamon blend of the love spice in my drink.” The trio doesn’t make an attempt to protest. “Just like the cinnamon buns Saturday morning.”
Hattie smiles dryly. “Did you enjoy them?”
