Chapter 17

17

Sarah

It's just for show.

This whole game and date are just for show.

Beck Ryder wasn't kissing me because he likes me. He thought I was playing the part, and I flinched, which probably ruined whatever look he was going for, but I'm not an actress .

I'm just me .

"Do you like funnel cake?" I ask when an awkward silence falls between us, because if I've learned anything about Beck in the last two days, it's that he's always starving.

"Oh, hells to the yeah," he replies, a full boyish grin taking ten years off his face.

Not that he looks old . He's…what? Thirty-two? Thirty-three?

Definitely old enough to not get excited like a puppy over funnel cake, yet here we are.

With him all but wagging his tail at the idea of fried dough and sugar.

He's adorable. And with those sexy bedroom eyes—it's a lethal combination.

He turns to the bodyguards.

"No funnel cake sold in the ballpark, Mr. Ryder," the first one says.

"Can get a really good hot dog though," the second one offers. "Or a hamburger or some pretzels."

He wrinkles his nose. "Not the same. You want a funnel cake, Sarah?"

"I can settle for a pretzel."

"But do you want a funnel cake?"

Twenty minutes later, ballpark security delivers a box of food.

And when I say box , I don't mean a little grocery store rotisserie chicken-size box.

I mean a giant box. One of those suckers that'll hold twenty reams of paper and apparently enough grease to slick a pig.

"Ah, yeah, that's what I'm talking about," Beck says.

He starts pulling out take-out cartons and bags, and the scent of fried food fills the air.

There's fried chicken. Waffle fries. Funnel cake. Okra. Peach cobbler.

"Hungry much?" I ask him.

"Starving," he replies. "You want a wing? Drumstick? We have to share the funnel cake. The cameras are watching."

The cameras.

The same cameras that were watching the night I had my first kiss, which was broadcast via all of the gossip rags when it got awkward with a strand of saliva going between his chin and my mouth because I thought he was going for a kiss and he thought we were going for a hug, and I decided to go all out, and my freshman class had a field day with making slobbery nicknames for me for weeks.

I blow out a slow breath and remind myself I'm not fourteen anymore, and that I'm in control of this story, while Beck lifts the lid on the funnel cake, holds it to his face, and sucks in a deep breath over it. "Heaven."

"You really like food."

He breathes in again, nose right up in the fried dough, and I don't know what comes over me, but I tap the carton upward, and he jerks back with powdered sugar on his nose, surprise giving way to an evil, evil smile.

"So that's how it's going to be," he says.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I reply, but I'm battling my facial muscles to keep from grinning back, because even if this picture goes all over the tabloids, I won't be the only one looking goofy. He not only has powdered sugar on his nose, but his cheeks are dusted, and his stubble and one dark eyebrow look like they just survived a concentrated attack of flurries.

And he's smiling.

He's smiling so big, so uninhibited, with those eyes dancing with utter joy, that I'm in danger of jumping on the joy train with him.

"You know how long it takes to wash powdered sugar out of your hair?" he asks as he draws his finger over the top of the funnel cake.

I'm pressing myself as far back in my seat as I can get, knowing what's coming, and unable to stop smiling back at him. "That assumes I care enough to wash my hair regularly. Ask my mom. She'll tell you. It's once a month for me."

"Come here, Sarah. We need matching makeup."

"Oh, no. It's not even until you're wearing some ranch dressing too. I'm still wearing some sriracha that I spilled last week during a game. See?" I point blindly to my gray shirt while he leans closer, threatening me with a powdered sugar finger.

"Looks clean as a daisy in springtime," he replies.

"You didn't even look."

He lunges for my cheek, and I shriek and yank his hat down his face. He knocks his elbow on the table when he tries to straighten his cap, and the food skitters precariously to the edge.

I lunge for it, he thinks I'm starting a food fight, and we end up in a tangled heap of arms and legs with the funnel cake in Beck's lap and a chicken wing down my shirt.

"Oh my god, get it out, get it out ," I'm shrieking as I laugh and bend over as far as I can go in my seat while I try to dig it out without flashing any skin.

"You need help?" he asks, angling his head to peer at my boobs, which are squished against my leg. "I could totally be a gentleman and help."

"In your dreams, Ryder."

"You know this funnel cake's all mine now. It's a rule. If you crotch it, you…huh. What rhymes with crotch?"

"Botch?" I suggest as I finally grab the fried chicken and pull it out from beneath my hem. "Flotch? Notch?"

"Yeah. You crotch it, you notch it."

My eyes go wide. "I don't think that's about funnel cake."

He gives me the famous Beck Ryder smolder, and my body jerks to attention. You could notch me .

"You gonna eat that wing?" he asks. "The wings are my favorite."

I settle back in my seat and hand it over to him. "I thought the okra was your favorite."

"Favorite thing to sing about."

I bust up laughing again, because what ? "I'm beginning to understand why Ellie doesn't talk about you."

"Too much fabulousness. She's never been able to deal."

"Uh-huh."

"Okay, okay. It's because I made her sign a contract not to. I'm a terrible diva, and I don't want anyone to know."

"You're a total goober."

His face splits into a grin, and god , he's gorgeous. "That's what she says too."

For once, I believe him. He snorts out a short laugh as he plucks a big piece of fried dough off his lap. "Hey, there's a ball game going on."

I glance out at the field. The scoreboard says we're actually fighting a close game in the third inning. Mackenzie's probably at the edge of her seat, biting her nails.

She gets so tense during the close games.

"Are you going to throw more food at me if I check to see if Mackenzie's texting me orders to go to the bathroom?" I ask.

He sweeps another glance down my body, and a warm flush follows everywhere his gaze touches. "Maybe."

"I know how to transport bees and hide a hive in your bed."

His laugh is rich and long, and while I know we need to look like we're getting along for the cameras—and yes, there are at least seven that I've been able to pick out, all pointed our way—it feels very, very real to have him laughing at one of my jokes.

"You're not allowed to hang out with Wyatt. Ever," he informs me.

"Too bad you're leaving town and he's moving in next door to me. Looks like you're screwed."

He just grins again.

Say what you want about the man, but you can't deny he's one happy guy.

Funny, that.

I ran away from the spotlight to find my happiness.

And here he is, basking in it. Happy about it. Even after having all manner of nasty things said about him in the last three days.

In a world revolving around looking good, he fits in well.

We couldn't be more polar opposites if we tried.

But that doesn't mean I'm not in danger of succumbing to his charms.

So it's time to remember who my parents are. Find some of that face to give the world. And tuck my heart in tight.

Because I'm not letting that world break me again.

No matter how amazing it feels to know that I'm a small, direct part of the reason the Fireballs are once again showing thousands of people how Persephone's doing over at the zoo.

That's what I'm doing this for.

To save the giraffes.