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My jaw tightens.
“Don’t pout,” he adds.
“I’m not pouting,” I growl, crossing my arms. Then I uncross them. “You sure you don’t wanna have any fun at all before we go out? My dick is throbbing.”
“Pace yourself.” He kisses my forehead again, then slips away from me, heading down the hall to the kitchen.
I swear, if he says “pace yourself” one more time …
An hour later when we leave the house, I’m honestly still frustrated about it. Not only is Coop acting weird, but suddenly he has slammed his big foot on the brakes of my sexual advances. How else am I supposed to take this? Is he not into me anymore? Is the magic gone, just like that?
Was it a mistake to walk with him on the boardwalk?
To try and fulfill his dream?
I’m afraid of what’s going on in Cooper’s mind right now. Whatever he isn’t telling me. The thing he fears. The thing he’s trying to stop from happening. His worries.
I thought I knew him a figurative second ago.
Now I’m so fucking lost.
I can’t get settled into something nice again, only to find out it was all an elaborate illusion meant to give me a false sense of security. I don’t want any more rugs pulled out from under me. I have lost enough rugs and fell on my ass enough times thanks to life’s dickhead moves.
“You can smell the street food already,” remarks Coop as we stroll along the sidewalk together, making our way.
The worst part is that he looks so good tonight. He’s not even all that dolled up. Just an understated t-shirt, fitted to his pecs, tight on his shoulders and sleeves. Pair of jeans that make his ass look so good. His short hair has that hot and lazy look to it, like his sexiness is just an accident.
And I’m not allowed to have any fun with that tonight?
What the fuck kind of torture is this?
“Yeah,” I answer back. “Smells yummy.”
“Hope you’re hungry, because I’m buying you one of everything.”
As we come up onto Cassanova Street, it actually isn’t the food we find first. Lining both sides of the road are kiosks, booths, and tables of arts and crafts—as well as a lot more people than I expected for a Monday night. The street is lit from one end to the other by crisscrossing strands of lights hanging overhead, creating a canopy of stars under which we walk as we stroll past the vendors.
Everyone knows Cooper. He gets waved at by nearly every vendor or booth as we pass by. Being the owner of the main bar on the island, of course it makes sense that everyone knows his face.
I get some looks, too. Weird looks. “Who’s that?” sorts of looks. I just keep my hands in the pockets of my shorts (one of the new pairs I bought today) and walk by Coop’s side, keeping quiet and feeling a little weird.
My quiet trend continues whenever Cooper approaches a booth to make small talk with a friend. “You torched the glass yourself? I love the colors. This is Sean, by the way.”
He introduces me to everyone we meet, too.
And we meet a lot of people.
“Hey, Jen, how’s it going? This beaded jewelry is incredible. Your attention to detail improves every day.” I feel Cooper pat my back. “This is Sean. Sean, this is Jen.”
“Sean, come and meet Lee. He makes really cool art with nothing but recycled cans and wire hangers.”
“Hey, Sean, check out Hudson’s stuff. I think he’s just a few years older than you. Hudson, this is Sean.”
“Charlie, hey. This is my friend Sean.”
“Sean, this is Ollie.”
“Ray, meet Sean.”
“Asher.”
“Jackson.”
“Emile.”
“Javier.”
“Sean, I want you to meet—”
Honestly, my mind can only hold so many names. If I was quizzed right now, I probably couldn’t even remember my own. My face started hurting sixteen people ago, and I can’t even tell you if I’m smiling anymore. I just nod with a flat face in lieu of nearly anything—verbal greetings and handshakes included. Several times I keep looking around for that Toby guy, but with the weird street lighting and all the people around us, I’d be surprised just to find my own reflection in a window.
“Oh, you’ll want to try one of these,” says Coop as we stop by a booth selling corndogs. We’ve finally found our way to the food. “Seriously, best thing you’ve ever put in your mouth. Finn told me once it’s a special recipe with the batter. These corndogs are from the Hopewell Fair. Finn is a friend of mine, his family owns the harbor. Meet Aaron, the guy who doesn’t burn the corndogs.”
“Takes skill,” mumbles the messy-haired, lanky Aaron, who looks stoned out of his mind. “Hey, are you hiring at the bar? I might want a new job. Don’t tell Mr. Marty.”
