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Carolina’s cheeks are as red as the roses I bought for her birthday this year. “Of course.” She signals toward the tables. “Let me wrap this up, and I’ll be right there.”
“Nah, I got it,” I say, waving my hand toward a table covered in baskets. “Go help your mom.”
“Thank you,” Carolina says, shooting me an apprehensive glance before turning her attention back to her father.
The fundraiser reminds me of a mini carnival. A large pavilion is set up over the tables and chairs. The children have plenty to entertain them—playground, jump house, clown, and a DJ blasting kid shit. Carolina arranged a silent auction, and those entering the spaghetti cook-off are arranging their food placements. I raise a brow when I spot the dunk tank. Mr. Rogers, the old high school football coach, was the dunk tank dude, but he recently moved.
Who’s taking his place?
I situate the tables and chairs exactly how Carolina does every time, and she returns minutes after I’m finished.
“Perfect timing. Show up right when the hard work is done,” I joke.
“You’re so hilarious.” She rolls her eyes while walking away, waving me to follow her. “Come on, my favorite helper. I have the perfect job for you.”
I follow her, having no shame in checking out her ass. “What’s this job?”
“You’ll see,” she sing-songs.
“That’s scary. Last time you said that, you auctioned me off for a date, forcing me to endure dinner with the town’s cat lady.”
“Ms. Gorgman is sweet.” Her voice is full of sarcasm.
“She asked for her cake to go with the intention of me licking it off her later—verbatim.” I shudder, reliving the moment in my head.
“Oh, please. I doubt it was the first time you licked food off a woman.”
“Not cake, and most definitely not off a sixty-five-year-old woman who has the stench of cat piss.”
“Lucky for you, it’s not a date auction.”
“Better not, or be prepared to drop your savings to buy a date with your boy.” I signal down my body. “You know this sells for big money.”
She scoffs. “Calm down, Casanova. Your job is way better than paid dates.”
When she stops, a groan leaves me.
“The dunk tank? Not fucking happening.” I make a circle around my head. “Do you know how long it takes to perfect this look?”
“Five minutes,” she deadpans.
Next argument point coming. “I don’t have dry clothes to change into.”
“You’re covered. I brought some of yours from the loft.”
“I love how well you planned this out without telling me.” My finger moves to my chin, tapping it, as her face floods with delight. “If I recall correctly, whenever I ask for my clothes back, you say once they make it to your place, they’re no longer mine. Sorry, babe, but I can’t change intoyourclothes. It looks like you’ll be sitting your pretty ass in that tank.”
The thing looks like a death trap with the wire net around the tank and the red target on the bright yellow backstop.
It’s her turn to signal to her hair. “It takes me a good hour to do this work of art.” She grins, slapping my shoulder. “I win. Follow me, and I’ll show you where to change and shower when you’re done.”
“Fine,” I grumble. “I’m only doing this because I love your ass.”
She grins wildly. “I know.”
How does she always manage to talk me into this shit?
* * *
