Chapter 3

Three

B lake

Even though I had the foresight to remove my shoes before I got soaking wet, my jeans are dripping into my shoes so they still make an embarrassing squelchy sound as I make my way down the midway, looking for Dahlia. I should have made that woman go and fetch me dry clothes from somewhere, in exchange for doing her this favor.

People stare and snicker at me. I don't care; I just want my shirt back. And then I want to go home, dry off, get back to the bar and toss that damn jack-o’-lantern in the trash.

I find Dahlia sitting alone at the information booth for the ghost tour. She doesn’t see me coming yet because she’s busy chatting with some folks and handing out fliers.

Something about her, something about the way she is the complete opposite way that I am around people—vulnerable and pure—makes me smile on the inside. She is always on. Always smiling, always looking like she’s ready to have fun. Gramps was the same way; it makes sense that he liked her so much. I can understand why Gramps was sad about my breakup with Dahlia. I watch people around her and it’s clear to me she makes everyone around her happy. Nobody leaves her booth without a smile on their face.

I haven’t felt an easiness like that in over two years.

A fleeting thought occurs to me: she’d probably raise a hell of a lot more money if she’d just open a kissing booth instead, as it looks like every guy within ten miles is hanging around her booth just to talk to her.

Wait a minute. What am I thinking? I don’t want anyone kissing her. Especially not guys like the ones staring at her from just feet away at the ring toss game. A couple of dude bros with too much money and too much time on their hands are both checking her out and making comments to each other. And it looks as if their girlfriends are standing not five feet away.

But what do I care what she gets up to, or who checks her out? I have no claim on her, I remind myself. That’s some weird ego shit happening in my subconscious. Caveman shit.

And then, the caveman inside gets louder when I come closer and realize that Dahlia is wearing my flannel shirt. My chest feels like the mayor missed the dunk tank target and hit me in the solar plexus instead. I like her wearing my shirt. I shouldn’t like her wearing my shirt but I do. Her dress wasn’t warm enough for this weather anyway. Something inside me is pleased she’s wearing it. Maybe when I get it back, the shirt will be covered with that apple pie scent of hers.

The twitching of my cock also cannot be ignored. Physically, chemically, primally—I’m still way into her.

I watch her for a minute longer, people milling around me. When one group wanders away from her table, leaving her completely alone for a second, she grabs up the front of my flannel shirt and lifts it to her nose. Her eyes flutter closed.

The arousal I’d felt a minute ago amps up by one thousand percent as I watch. I want to hug her, and then my body wants to fuck her while she’s wearing my clothes.

Shit, where did that come from?

I begin to back off. I don’t want to be around her while I have this mile-high boner. But then she spots me and waves me over.

“Blake! Hi!” Slightly embarrassed at being caught wearing my flannel, she blushes and takes it off.

“No, you don’t have to,” I start, rushing toward her.

She flicks a dismissive hand at me. “Don’t be silly. I was holding it for you. It just became easier to put it on than set it down and lose it.”

The bros wander over to her table from the ring toss game, their girlfriends one step behind them. One of the girls makes a spooky noise as she holds up the brochure about the ghost tour. The other girl seems on board with the idea but their boyfriends are not in to it.

I see Dahlia’s inimitable cheerfulness falter a little. Maybe for half a second. I don’t like it.

Before I think about what I’m saying, I address the guys. “Listen, that ghost tour is fucking amazing and you need to sign up. Now.”

One of the dudes looks at me with an expression that makes me think I might have made him pee his pants. The other one shrugs and grudgingly signs everyone’s names on the sheet and pays the fee.

“Wise decision,” I say as the men slink away from me and the girls chatter excitedly after thanking me for the recommendation.

Dahlia looks up at me with so much sweetness in her face and a hand to her chest like she’s about to make some big declaration of gratitude.

“Save it,” I say. I don’t need gratitude, because it was only pure machismo that made me feel like coercing those guys into making her happy.

I take my shirt from her, water still dripping from my hair down my neck. “You could have just put it in your bag.”

She averts her gaze to her lap. Shyness is not a look I’m used to seeing on her. It’s kind of adorable. “I could have, but then your shirt would smell like my breath mints. And then the likelihood of a random emergency tampon flying out of it when I return the shirt to you would be about 3 to 1.”

I laugh, and she seems relieved. “Most men don’t like tampon jokes.”

I shrug. “Most other men are nitwits.”

Why did I feel the need to say that? Why does being around her make me want to put all other men in their place? Maybe I should start with, why does it feel so nice to be around her?

I was so hopping mad when I finished at the dunk tank that I was going to march straight over here to tell her she could forget the whole scavenger hunt stop at the bar. But I don't have it in me to say any of that. Instead I’m taken over by the strange sensation that I just want to make her happy. To do anything to keep her smiling.

“You hungry?” I find myself asking.

“Kind of,” she says with a grin.

“You wanna … (gulp) …grab dinner?”

She sighs regretfully. “I would, but I have to judge the pumpkin pound cake competition in a little while and I want to have a clean palate.”

Confused, I tell her that’s what I thought the ballot boxes were for.

She brightens up again. She loves explaining how the games work. It’s so fucking cute. “Yes, that’s for people’s choice. To cast a ballot you pay a dollar. But then we have judge’s choice, which will decide the grand prize winner.”

I shake my head even as my body shivers from wearing wet clothes in the cool air. “Isn’t there anyone else?”

She bites her lip. “Well, Amanda Hall has been helping collect the entrance fees from all the vendors and overseeing the ticket booth, otherwise I know she would help.”

I sigh. “You need to learn how to delegate.”

Her eyes widen. “That’s a great idea.”

“Oh shit,” I say. “No.”

“Yes! You judge it with me!”

“I’m wet.”

“So go home and dry off and when you get back, we’ll do the judging. Deal?”

“No.”

“But you’re wet and hungry and those pound cakes smell delicious.”

True. And so does she.

Her pleading eyes are too much for me.

I grunt out, “Fine,” and slosh away to my truck.