Page 30 of The Spite Date (Small Town Sisterhood #1)

“You told me last night that you didn’t like me. And now—now, everyone in Athena’s Rest will be talking about how we’re essentially having another date.”

I swallow. “I…said what now?”

“You told me your parents always put you in the middle of their—their relationship problems, and you were mad that I did the same to you with Jake.”

Bloody hell.

“You don’t remember, do you?” she presses.

“I am unfortunately rather more affected by bubbly than I’d like to be.”

“Which means what, exactly? That you lie when you’re drunk, or that you told me the truth and just don’t remember so you’re trying to butter me up to ask me what else you said?”

The world is spinning.

The world is spinning with the fact that there is no good answer to that question.

I could lie and tell her I’m being kind merely because I appreciate her kindness from last night.

I could tell her a partial truth, that I don’t remember, but I’m not attempting to butter her up so that she’ll tell me more.

Or I could tell her the full truth—that I am absolutely enamored with her story, with her life, with her , and that I’d like to get to know her better, and to hell with being angry about last night.

I dislike being angry.

But I like Bea.

And I dislike that I like Bea, because the last time I let myself like a woman—well, I don’t regret the boys, but I certainly hope I learned my lesson.

“Hey, mister, win a teddy bear for your lady?” A man under a tent holds out a ping-pong ball. Rows of goldfish bowls are lined on the table behind him. “Sink this in a bowl, and you can have your pick of teddy bears for your lady.”

“I’m not—” Bea starts, but I cut her off by slipping an arm around her waist.

She glances up at me sharply.

Likely because I haven’t answered her question.

And I’m well aware that not answering and touching her is kind of its own answer.

“Is that all it takes?” I inquire of the man.

He flashes a smile at me. “Harder than it looks.”

I glance down the row of games, where my boys have stepped back into the line for musical chairs.

“I rather doubt that,” I declare. “Bea, would you like a teddy bear?”

She’s still looking at me.

Possibly calling me a chicken for not answering her question.

But it’s answered one of mine.

What did I say last night?

Entirely too much.

“She doesn’t think you can do it,” the guy calls to me.

“I certainly can’t if I don’t attempt it,” I reply.

Bea sighs. “Simon. No one ever wins this game. There are actually petitions every year at city council meetings to ban him from setting up his games at any of the local festivals and carnivals. It would be more efficient for you to just make a donation to the youth sports fund.”

“But far less fun,” I reply.

“Screw that game,” another voice calls. “Screw the teddy bears too. I’ve got one that’ll really impress her.”

A different man is standing with a mallet in front of a test-your-strength booth.

“Is that one also rigged?” I ask Bea.

“I don’t like the way you’re smiling right now.”

“You should do it too. I’m certain you have far more strength than the rest of us.” I hustle her toward the booth and nod to the man holding the mallet. “Sign us up. How much for a swing?”

I buy us each three chances to hit the target hard enough to lift the weight all the way up to the bell, and I gesture for Bea to take the mallet. “Ladies first.”

“So you know how much harder you have to hit it for me to not show you up?”

“Because I have manners, Ms. Best.”

Last night, I giggled and told her I liked her willy dogs.

Manners, indeed.

Her brows lift as she smiles, as though she’s fully aware which memories are sifting back into place, and she takes the mallet.

The board is marked with measures of strength for the weight to lift above, and I’m unsurprised when Bea’s first attempt sends the weight two-thirds of the way to the bell, all the way to the You might be able to win an arm wrestling match against a three-year-old line.

This standard of measurement is quite judgy.

Bea shakes her head, grins, then steps back and swings the mallet even harder.

It’s fascinating watching the arc of her body. The strength in her arms and her legs. The flush of her cheeks as she smiles broader when the weight reaches nearly the ninetieth percent mark.

Though the marker is far less complimentary than it should be.

You got lucky once, but you’ll never get higher than this , the board reads.

“You’ve handled a mallet before?” I ask her.

“I help Ryker split wood at his place every fall. Great stress relief.”

“Still can’t make it hit the bell,” the gentleman running the booth says to her.

“Go bake a pie, Larry,” she replies.

He scowls at her.

She grins even broader, and—her dimples.

I fantasized about licking her dimples last night.

Did I say those things aloud, or did I keep them in my head?

“Larry here spent seven years telling everyone he made the best pies in town, but no one deserved them,” Bea tells me.

“Just swing the damn mallet, Bea,” Larry says.

“Or the right berries weren’t in season, or the flour for the crust wasn’t fresh enough at the market, or he was too busy with his day job…”

“He gets it, Bea. Swing the mallet and move on.”

“A little belief in your contestants would go a long way toward making people like you more,” Bea replies. “Maybe redo your board with some motivational messages instead of trash talk.”

“Trash talk is motivational.”

“And yet you’re getting all pissy about me trash-talking your pies… Interesting double standard, don’t you think, Simon?”

“I believe you’ll hit the bell, Bea,” I reply.

She grins at me, and once again, my lightheadedness goes lightheaded.

So.

Fucking.

Lovely.

Full of mischief too.

You can tell by the way she swings that mallet as though she’s the star of one of those YouTube channels dedicated solely to wood splitting.

And it’s zero surprise at all when the weight lifts all the way to the bell, ringing out loudly for all of the carnival goers to hear.

She drops the mallet and holds her arms wide in victory as she looks at me. “Go ahead. Beat that.”

I swoop her up and spin her around. “Well done, Bea! That was incredible.”

And then I remember myself.

Standing here, in the middle of a public carnival, with people watching.

I set her down, and she stares up at me, smile gone, a look of singular concentration crossing her face.

I clear my throat. “Lovely swing. Congratulations, darling. You’ve quite the talent with swinging a mallet.”

A mechanical voice cuts off whatever Bea was about to say. “Standing on the target is cheating. Prize forfeited.”

Pinky makes a low growl. “You got five people recording this on their phones.”

Five people.

Phones.

And I’ve just swung her in a circle as though we’re friends.

Better than friends.

Remember your surroundings, you arsehole .

The rumors will circulate that we’re dating.

When I make a point to not date anyone.

My publicist will need a call.

Immediately.

“Here’s your prize, Bea,” Larry grumbles. He holds the mallet out to me. “You still wanna do this?”

I believe he’s asking if I want to risk not performing as well as Bea has.

And the obvious answer is, of course I fucking do.

“Stand back, Bea, and let a novice show you how this is not to be done,” I say.

She stares at me without blinking for another long moment, and then she laughs. “How far back?”

“Oh, very far. I fear I shall be quite unpredictable with my swing.”

Larry takes six steps to his side.

Pinky sighs heavily and pushes Bea back another four feet as well.

I test the weight of the mallet and find it heavier than expected.

Rather unlikely my swing will crack the did you even touch the target? line.

But I wind up anyway, doing my best to imitate the way that Bea lifted the mallet, swinging it back over my head, only for the weight of the thing to suddenly and drastically change as I attempt to bring the mallet down.

A woman screams.

Larry does too.

When the mallet strikes the target, it’s missing its head.

The sound of splintering glass crashes through the air.

“My goldfish!” someone yells. “Save my goldfish!”

I spin.

Pinky blocks me with one beefy arm while shoving Bea beside me.

Several people have ducked, huddling close to the ground.

And it’s suddenly clear what happened.

The mallet head detached from the handle at just the wrong moment to fling itself into the booth behind us.

The booth of the ping-pong balls and goldfish bowls took a direct hit from the mallet head.

“You would think the fortune teller could have warned us about this ,” I murmur to Bea.

She whimpers.

It’s a soft whimper that has me immediately spinning to face her. “Are you injured? Did it hit you? Are you—oh.”

She appears unharmed.

Unharmed and highly amused.

“I didn’t hit it hard enough to break it,” she says between fits of laughter. “This isn’t funny. Someone could’ve been hurt. But oh my god , the way it went flying—and then you took out half of the goldfish bowls—you might’ve just solved the biggest problem in the carnival game circuit here.”

People have begun helping the gentleman scoop up his goldfish to deposit them into the bowls that survived the mallet attack.

“It’s a single mallet head.” I look at Bea, who’s bent double, wheezing. “How the hell did it take out that many fishbowls?”

“Like billiards,” Pinky says. “They were touching. Hit one right, it’s gonna break the ones next to it.”

“Dad? Dad! Are you okay?”

Charlie reaches us first, followed closely by Eddie, Tank, and Butch.

Lana’s taking a leisurely stroll toward us, loaded down with at least two cakes and a bag of candy floss.

“We’re fine,” I tell my boys. “There was, erm, a mishap with a mallet.”

“Basically your dad isn’t allowed to ever help anyone in town split firewood now,” Bea says.

She’s still giggling.

It’s beautiful.

Music.

“Go and help your mother,” I say to the boys as Bea steps around Pinky to head toward the fishbowl disaster.

I should help.

But the moment I take my own step in that direction, Butch and Tank block me.

“Glass,” Tank says.

“Emotional people,” Butch says.

“Time to go.”

Of course.

And they’re correct.

Naturally.

We’ve begun to attract a crowd.

“Bea—” I start, but my entire security team gives me a look that tells me I’m fighting a losing battle.

To them, she’s a dalliance.

A distraction.

And she’s managing herself without issue, navigating the broken glass and grabbing a fish and chatting amicably with the rest of the carnival goers who are converging on the tent to help.

I am not needed.

Worse, I am likely a distraction. And the cause of the mayhem.

That seems to be the story of my life since In the Weeds .

One would think I should be accustomed to it by now.

She doesn’t glance our way as we leave.

And that makes me far sadder than it should.