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“Not nice to laugh, firecracker.” He hauls me into his side and kisses my neck before blowing a raspberry in the same spot.
“I-I’m sorry.” I laugh.
“Are you? Not sure I believe you.”
I shove him away and work to regain my composure. I lean to the side, look over his shoulder and narrow my eyes a split second before returning to him. “One last game. Then it’s food time.”
“Lead the way.” He shuffles to the side and gestures for me to walk ahead.
The closer we get to the high striker, the more I mentally shake my head.What the hell am I thinking?How heavy are those mallets? Will I get anywhere near the bell at the top?Too late to worry about it now.
I step up and the attendant looks at me with a teasing smile on his lips. Immediately, I want to bang the hell out of that bell.
“Two please,” I tell him.
Braydon pays the man and we step up to the mallet stand. “Want to go first?” he asks.
I shake my head. “No, you go first. I’ll keep your sparkly unicorn safe.”
Throwing me my favorite smile of his, he hands over the toy. “Be right back, Princess Periwinkle.”
I snort-laugh. “Did you seriously name this stuffed unicorn in the last three minutes?”
He slaps a hand to his chest. “I am her father. Have you not named yours yet?” he asks, mock offended.
I bite the inside of my cheek. Look down at the brown stuffed dog in my arm. Shrug and meet his gaze. “Nope. But if you hit the bell, I’ll name it.”
“Ooh. Challenge accepted.”
Braydon steps up to the plate with the mallet in his hand. Shuffles his feet into a comfortable stance. Swings the mallet a few times before lifting it high, locking both hands in place, and bringing it to the platform with as much force as possible. The metal clapper shoots up the rail but falls short of the bell by inches.
His bottom lip juts out and is downright adorable.
I hold up my hand and pinch my thumb and forefinger together with a tiny gap. “You were so close.”
“Wanted to win you the big bear.”
I pat his shoulder. “It’s okay.” I press my lips to his cheek then hand over the stuffed toys. “My turn.”
As I step up to the mallet stand, I feel the weight of more than Braydon’s eyes on me. The attendant tries to tell me how to hold the mallet and hit the platform. I tune him out.
Here’s the thing. I may be small in stature. May not look very muscular to the naked eye. But looks are deceiving. Owning a restaurant, no matter the type, you have to be able to lift heavy boxes and bags. At least once a week, I hoist hundred-plus-pound burlap sacks of coffee beans. Lift twenty-five-pound bags of sugar. The perishable deliveries are more frequent. Even with the lighter weight of milk crates, the repetition of lifting has toned my muscles.
So as I step up to the platform in my sundress, I listen to my body as I swing the mallet. Take a deep breath, raise the mallet up and over my head, then bring it back down with as much oomph as possible.
Thwack.
Ding.
I drop the mallet on the ground, dance like an idiot, and squeal in victory. The attendant stands awestruck while onlookers cheer and clap. Braydon runs up to me, wraps his arms around my middle, toys dangling behind me, and twirls me in circles.
“Holy shit,” he says as my feet hit the ground. He takes my mouth with his. “That was so fucking hot.”
“Yeah?”
“Hell yeah.” He shifts us to the attendant. “Go get your prize, firecracker.” His hand smacks my ass.
I end up with a stuffed panda almost too big to hold or carry. Braydon gives me the two smaller toys and takes the panda. We meander through the vendors and food trucks, several people congratulating me as we pass.
