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“I don’t want Beth back.”
Put in my place, I forlornly nibble a plantain chip.
“Thought the story was about us,” he says a few minutes later. “About you and me.” He pushes the sunglasses onto his head and spears me with those hypnotizing blues.
“It is.”
“You’d rather write about Beth and me than you and me?”
“There is no you and me, Barrett. We’re dating for an article. Our boundary lines are a little blurry but—”
“You like kissing me.”
“I...do not.” Lie.
“Yeah. You do. I can tell by that whimpering, mewly sound you make in the back of your throat whenever I do it.”
“That... I don’t... That’s not what I do.” I’m flustered. Embarrassed. And lying through my teeth.
“Okay, Kitty Cat.” He reclaims his relaxed posture after shoving his empty plate aside. “You keep telling yourself that. I was there for each one of those lip-presses and I know what I heard. You. Mewling. I also know what I felt: You. Climbing me like a ladder.”
I toss my napkin onto my plate, prepared to stand and storm off for another episode of I Can’t Even with Barrett Fox.
“Don’t turn tail for once,” he says. “You wanted the bad boy of the NFL as a date, sweetheart, you got him. Stick around and see where it goes. At least you’ll have somethin’ fun to write about.” He returns his sunglasses to the bridge of his nose. “Want me to do something outrageous so you have some fodder?”
“Ha!” My laughter is a touch loud and draws attention from the surrounding tables. A few gazes linger on my ginger-haired date. “Your performance on stage is plenty of fodder.”
“Oh yeah?” He grins, a cunning fox in a coat of red.
“You know it was impressive,” I mumble. “You have a nice voice.”
“Sure you wanna write that? Sounds awfully flattering.”
“Could you be more conceited?”
“Used to be,” he states. “Then I blew my shoulder and learned a lesson in humility.”
He’s serious. And for a scant, and rare, moment I catch a glimpse of the heart hiding under his laid-back, cocky exterior. Like the day I told him North dumped me, I sense that there’s more to Fox than overblown charm and lewd comments.
“Now what?” he asks, his voice tempting and suggestive.
I point at various booths dotting the grounds. “Funnel cake? Face paint? Temporary tattoo?”
He crunches on a piece of ice from his glass. I wish he’d take those sunglasses off so I could see his eyes again.
“Face paint,” he decides.
It’s either face painting or I admit that I’d like another of those deep, wet, delicious kisses he’s so good at surprising me with. Is it hot out here or is it me?
He throws money on the table without waiting for a bill, but fifty bucks will more than cover our tacos, and then he takes my hand and leads me from the patio area.
I relax, confident that the bout of crazed lust that hammered me earlier has receded. He tugs me in the direction of a photo booth with a line stretching around one of the sculptures that permanently sits outside. A tall, red, curvy...whatever it is. Sort of looks like a deflated ampersand.
“Let’s do this first.”
“That line is probably forty minutes long,” I whisper, taking in the many, many people patiently waiting their turn.
“Hey, ’scuse me, buddy,” Barrett says to a younger guy standing hand in hand with his girlfriend at the front of the line. “If I give you twenty bucks, would you let my girl and me cut in front of you? We’re pressed for time.”
