I laugh. “So where does that leave the scorecard in the tournament of childhood trauma?”
“Yeah, I’ve still got you beat by a mile, but you’re on the board.”
“Fair.”
We exchange knowing grins at the futility of such arguments. It wasn’t my intention to turn the discussion into a competition—I’d never make light of the pain Cooper has suffered—but I guess I was holding in a bit more frustration than I’d realized. It all sort of spilled out.
“Hey, you got any plans tonight?” he asks as he gets to his feet.
I hesitate. I should check with Preston, see if he’s doing anything with the guys tonight.
Instead, I say, “No.”
Because where Cooper’s concerned, my better judgment has gone to hell.
His gaze rakes over me in a way that elicits a hot shiver. “Good. I’m taking you out.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
COOPER
“I’ve always wanted to do one of these,” Mac says, grabbing my arm and tugging me toward some spinning monstrosity a hundred feet in the air.
Is this chick serious? I roll my eyes at her. “If I wanted to get dizzy and choke on my own vomit, I could do that on the ground.”
She spins on me, eyes wide and shining in the multicolored lights. “You’re not chicken, are you, Hartley?”
“Never,” I say, because the inability to back down from a challenge is one of my personality defects.
“Then put your money where your mouth is, chicken man.”
“You’re gonna regret that.” I warn, gesturing for her to lead the way.
The annual boardwalk festival is a highlight of the fall season in Avalon Bay. It’s supposed to commemorate the founding of the town or something, but really, it’s become an excuse to throw a party. Local restaurants bring out their food trucks and vendor stands, bars sling signature cocktails from carts, and midway games and carnival rides cram the boardwalk.
Evan and I used to smoke a bowl with our friends, get smashed, and jump from one ride to the next to see who lost their lunch first. Last couple of years, though, I guess we’ve gotten tired of it.
For some reason, I feel compelled to be the one to introduce Mac to the festival.
The boardwalk is crowded. Carnival jingles compete with live bands playing at three stages spread out through Old Town. The aromas of corn dogs and cotton candy, funnel cakes and turkey legs, waft on the breeze. After the Wave Flinger and Moon Shot, we go down the fifty-foot Avalanche slide and tackle the Gravity Well. All the way, Mac is skipping around with a huge grin on her face. Not an ounce of trepidation. She’s an adventurer, this one. I dig it.
“What next?” she asks as we’re recovering from her latest ride selection. I wouldn’t call myself a wimp, but the daredevil beside me is definitely giving me a run for my money.
“Can we do something chill?” I grumble. “Like, give me five seconds to readjust to gravity.”
She grins. “Something chill? Gee, Grandpa, like what? Should we sit quietly on the Ferris wheel or board that slow little train that goes through the Tunnel of Love?”
“If you’re going into the Tunnel of Love with your grandpa, then you’ve got a whole new set of problems we need to talk about.”
She flips up her middle finger. “How about a cotton candy break, then?”
“Sure.” As we amble toward one of the concession stands, I speak in a conversational tone. “I got a BJ in that tunnel once, you know.”
Rather than look disgusted, her green eyes twinkle with delight. “Really? Tell me everything.”
We stand in line behind a woman who’s trying to wrangle three kids under the age of five. They’re like a litter of puppies, unable to stay still, bouncing around from the sugar highs they’re undoubtedly on.
I drag my tongue over my bottom lip and wink at Mac. “I’ll tell you later. In private.”
“Tease.”
We reach the counter, where I buy us two bags of cotton candy. Mac eagerly snatches one, peels off a huge, fluffy piece, and shoves the pink floss into her mouth.
“Soooo good.” Her words are garbled thanks to her completely full mouth.
X-rated images burn a hole in my brain as I watch her suck and slurp on the sugary treat.
My dick thickens against my zipper, making it difficult to concentrate on what she’s babbling about.
“Did you know that cotton candy was invented by a dentist?”
I blink back to reality. “Seriously? Talk about a proactive way to ensure a customer base.”
“Genius,” she agrees.
I reach into the bag and pinch off a piece. The cotton candy melts the moment it touches my tongue, the sweet flavor injecting a rush of nostalgia directly into my blood. I feel like a little kid again. Back when my parents were both around and still somewhat in love. They’d bring me and Evan to the boardwalk, stuff us full of junk food and sugar, and let us go wild. We’d drive home laughing and giddy and feeling like a real family.