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We climb into separate cars—his blue, mine red—and grip the steering wheels. Hayes makes a show of cracking his knuckles and giving me an intimidating stare that’s ruined by the smile he can’t quite suppress. The bell rings, and we’re off, electricity crackling above us as our cars jerk to life.
I immediately aim for him, but he’s quick, spinning his car away and circling back to tap my bumper from behind. I yelp in surprise, twisting to see him grinning wickedly as he speeds away.
When I ram his car from the side, the impact sends a satisfying jolt through me. Hayes throws his head back and laughs, full-bodied. “Not bad, Wilson!” he calls out, already planning his counterattack.
We spend the entire ride hunting each other, and by the end, my cheeks hurt from smiling, and a pleasant flush has settled over Hayes’s face. “I’m pretty sure I hit you more times.”
“Quality over quantity.” I tap his chest. “My hits were strategically superior.”
“Oh, were they now?” He catches my hand before I can pull it away, and suddenly we’re standing very close, the playful argument forgotten as awareness crackles between us. His eyes drop to my lips for a fraction of a second before he seems to remember the cameras. He clears his throat. “How about the ring toss next?”
“Game on.” The booth is festooned with prizes—giant stuffed animals hanging from the ceiling, smaller ones lining the shelves. A bored teenager hands Hayes three rings in exchange for a ticket.
“I should warn you—” he weighs the rings in his palm, “I have excellent hand-eye coordination. Part of being a photographer.”
“Is that right?” I fold my arms, enjoying his confidence. “Prove it, Burke.”
He lines up his shot, one eye closed in exaggerated concentration, and tosses the first ring. It bounces off the top of a bottle and clatters to the ground.
“Excellent coordination.”
“I’m just warming up.” He rolls his shoulders dramatically.
The second ring sails through the air and circles the neck of a bottle before settling around it. Hayes pumps his fist, turning to me with such pride you’d think he’d just won Olympic gold.
“Don’t get cocky,” I warn him. “You still need one more for a prize.”
His third toss is perfect—a clean arc that drops the ring directly onto a bottle. The teenager unenthusiastically asks which prize Hayes wants, gesturing to the middle shelf.
“What do you think?” Hayes scans the options.
“The penguin.” I point to it, no hesitation.
When he hands me the flightless bird, I clutch it to my chest. “Thank you. I’ll name him Balerion, after the Black Dread.”
“A fearsome name for such a cuddly creature.”
“Penguins are fierce. Some can deep dive over fifteen hundred feet,” I say, and he laughs again—that genuine laugh that makes my insides feel like cotton candy.
Speaking of, the scent of sugar and fried dough is becoming impossible to ignore.
“Hungry?” Hayes asks, noticing my distracted sniffing.
“Starving.”
We wander through the food stalls until we share a funnel cake dusted with so much powdered sugar we both end up with white smudges on our clothes. Then, a giant cloud of pink cotton candy to share. Hayes tears off a piece and offers it to me. I take it, our fingers brushing again.
“So,” he says as we find a bench, “tell me an interesting fact about you.”
I consider this, feeling the cotton candy dissolve on my tongue. “I can recite the periodic table backwards while standing on my hands.”
His eyes go wide. “Seriously?”
“No,” I laugh. “But the fact that you believed it means I’ve successfully cultivated my nerd brand.”
He shakes his head, grinning. “Okay, for real though.”
I hesitate, deciding how personal to get. “I write all my first drafts on notebook paper, like I’m from the 1800s.”