Page 79 of Games Untold (The Inheritance Games #5)

Then

T here is a cowboy hat in the oven. There is a black ribbon around the base of the hat. There are hot pink skulls on the ribbon.

“Nash!” I holler. It’s been months, and I don’t know how many hats. At first, he was subtle about it, but for a full two months now, every single person in Hawthorne House has cued into his game.

The man is, in a word, persistent. “Behind you, Lib.”

I turn and see him sitting on the counter, his long legs dangling.

Look at him , I tell myself. And look at me. Nash Hawthorne is scuffed cowboy boots and wild horses, subtle smiles and dirt beneath his nails. He’s the things he builds with his hands, the guitar he plays.

He has to know this is never going to work. Look at him looking at me.

Nash Hawthorne and I are not dating. In fact, we have not-date night weekly. My ax-throwing skills are rapidly improving. He’s teaching me to play guitar.

But I’m still not wearing his hats.

I know myself. I know that if, in a moment of weakness, I put on one of the many, many cowboy hats he’s given me, the moment I let myself dream the most beautiful dream of us —

I can’t.

“Do you ever think,” Nash says, helping himself to one of my cupcakes with a slow, sly smile, “about Cartago?”