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He shrugs, the picture of modesty. “You’re biased, Eden.”
“I’m just your biggest fan,” I say.
“Oh, you two are adorable!” the woman beams. “You just have to come and join the games.”
“It does sound like fun,” I say. “We’re in. Aren’t we, Phillip?”
He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind.
“Perfect. Frank, we’ve got our work cut out for us now!” she says with a laugh. “They look like excellent sack racers!”
“What are you doing,” my own lovely husband mutters at my side.
“There aregames.” I bat my eyelashes at him like a besotted honeymooner. “And I know how much you love to win.”
He blinks twice before answering. “Fine. But I’m not getting into any sacks.”
* * *
He gets into a sack.
Not right away, of course. No, when we arrive at the courtyard garden for the resort-sponsored games, there are various supplies laid out on the lawn in front of the same smiling hotel employee.
About eight couples are milling around, some are chitchatting with others, but a few partners are keeping to themselves. One of the couples, both dressed in matching blue, can’t keep their hands off one another.
“Juggling,” I whisper to Phillip. “Why on earth did you choose that?”
“That’s payback for you saying you like thewindin Chicago. That was outrageous.”
“Worse than getting married on the roof of a skyscraper?”
“Yes,” he says. “That actually happens. I think.”
“And you don’t think women can fall in love with jugglers?” I ask. “You’d probably break hearts left, right, and center if you grabbed a couple of balls.”
His eyes widen, and a smile starts at the corner of his mouth. “Eden, I—”
“Don’t,” I say. “I heard how that sounded, too.”
He grins. “That’s all that counts,” he says. “This seems like an awful way to spend an afternoon.”
“Does that mean you want to leave?” I ask. “Because we totally can. I mean, I’m down. As long as you know it means we’re losing on walkover to all the other guests, half of whom are probably insufferable honeymooners.”
“I hate you,” he says, but it doesn’t sound like he means it at all.
“Thanks, sweetie pie.”
He frowns. “No.”
“My lucky charm?”
“Absolutely not.”
“My honey nut,” I say, and then grimace. “No.”
“Yes,” he says, amusement dancing in his eyes. “That one for sure. But why the cereal theme?”
“Because they’re—”
